


of pie and self loathing

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 06:30:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 93,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18177074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	1. Chapter 1

The screaming ended. John Winchester opened his eyes.Blurry, everything. Half-blind like a newborn kitten. He was naked, too. He couldn’t feel a scrap of clothing on him, but he was warm and somewhat comfortable. The mattress was lumpy, but it did the job. He squinted, made out the shapes of the generic motel room pictures that he had come to know so well in his life.John threw one foot off the bed and then the other. Rose. Fell down. His body was clumsy - like something new and unused. How had he gotten here? Was this a new kind of Hell?He didn’t remember the old one. He tried really hard to remember, but it was blank. The last thing to come to mind were his boys in the hospital. Leaning over and telling Dean what he would have to do. Hating himself a little for doing it, but overcoming his self-loathing by his sense of duty. Wondering, like he had for the past twenty three years, if his priorities were completely out of whack.John rose to his feet and this time he stayed there, took a breath. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Blinked rapidly. Focused.He took a few tentative steps forward. Stumbled and froze, but tried again. Stayed on his feet. Blinked, looked around.There were duffle bags on the floor. One was messy, overflowing with shirts and pants and underwear. The other was neat, zipped up. There were large, hardback books on the table. John would never admit it, but his heart leapt with hope.He made his way for the clothes first, knowing that his eyes wouldn’t be able to handle the small print of the books. He pulled a white T-shirt out of the messy bag, held it up to his nose, and inhaled deeply.Dean.He rifled through the bag and pulled out clothes, pulling them on himself. His boys. They’d be back here. He’d see them again, touch them again, hold them again. Then he’d ask them what the hell they did.___________________________________“I can’t thank you enough. You saved my life.” Evan Hudson shook Sam’s hand, then Dean’s hand. Again. For, like, the eighth time.“You’re welcome, Evan,” Sam said graciously. Again.“All in a day’s work,” Dean agreed. Again. “No more deals with demons, ay? We hope to never have to see you again.”The brothers patted the man on the shoulder before backing out of the door with tentative waves and practically scrambling to the Impala.  
“Nice guy,” Sam said once he was safe in the passenger seat. Dean started the car.“Yeah.”“So...how’d you do it?”“Trapped her. Exorcised her. How the hell do you think I did it?”Sam opened his mouth to snipe back, but shut it after second thought. Dean was obviously in one of his tender moods. Best not to press.But Sam was always one for pressing.“She offer you anything?” the younger boy insisted. “Tempt you?” Dean’s stoic face imperceptibly hardened and Sam had his answer right there. “She did,” he answered himself. Dean remained silent. Sam persisted. “Well?”“Just leave it alone, Sam. The goddamn job got done. Leave it at that.”Sam opened his mouth again - to argue, naturally - but the look on his brother’s face this time stopped him. For the first time, through all of the anger and repressed grief, Sam saw what his brother was hiding - a beaten man.“Hey. You, uh...wanna go get some pie or something? I could really go for some pie.” Sam didn’t even really like pie, but Dean did. And Dean really looked like he needed some pie.His big brother turned his head from the road for a moment, regarding him appreciatively.“That’s okay, Sammy. I just want to go to sleep for a while.”“Tomorrow, then?”“Definitely tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’ll have the most epic pie of all pie.”The rest of the drive was in silence. Once at the motel, Sam got out of the car and stretched, his long limbs cracking in the chill air. Dean did the same with the addition of a yawn before casting a nervous glance around their surroundings.“You okay?”“Fine. Let’s just go inside.”  
The room was empty.Dean didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He didn’t know where his father would be, much less if he was really back. He wasn’t  
sure if sending the Crossroads Bitch back to Hell negated the deal, but he’d done it anyway. He couldn’t let Evan Hudson die. Sam would never forgive him.Sam was eyeing him suspiciously and Dean couldn’t blame him. He was probably acting weird as hell. He could feel his nerves practically ringing inside of him, like a goddamn bell. He could feel his guilt, thick as vomit, rising from his guts to his throat.“What?” Dean asked, feeling grateful that it came out sounding convincing, as if he was really irritated and unaware of the reason why Sam was staring at him.“What do you mean ‘what’? Why are you acting so freakin’ nervous?”“Who’s nervous?”“You are, Dean. You’re nervous as Hell and I wanna know why!”The brothers glared at each other for a long moment, a moment that would have gone on twice as long if it weren’t for the distinct sound of a toilet flushing.Despite that they were already locked down in a staring contest, both boys visibly froze. Then turned quickly, standing shoulder to shoulder, in the direction of the bathroom.“Stop flushing the toilet with your mind, Sammy,” Dean hissed out of the side his mouth.“I’m not, Dean.”Dean knew that. He also knew who had flushed the toilet and his insides leapt with so much fear and anticipation that he thought he might very well piss his freaking pants...and dude, that would be humiliating.Sammy made to pull out his gun, but Dean was quick to slap his hand away. He had ten years left and that shit wasn’t going to be for nothing. He was going to have his goddamn pie and eat it, too.“Dude, what the fuck?” Sammy growled, losing his fighting stance to whirl away from the door and tower over his older brother.Dean looked past him, to John Winchester’s silent form now standing right outside the bathroom door, shadowed eyes trained directly on his oldest son. So silent Dean began to wonder if his father was a ghost.“Language, Sammy,” the older man said quietly.Nope, not a ghost.  
Sam’s face cottoned white. His lower lip dropped open. His eyes welled, watered. If Dean didn’t have that huge lump of vomit and guilt invading his throat he would have snarked at his brother for being such a pansy.Except then Sam went for his gun.“What the fuck are you?” the younger boy snarled, the barrel of his gun trained on his father’s head.“Sammy-”“It’s not him!” Sam yelled. “It can’t fucking be him.” He glared at the man, who had opened his mouth again. “Don’t you say it. It can’t fucking be you.”“It’s me,” John said.“The hell it is. We burned Dad. We salted him and then we poured gasoline over him and then we burned him just like he would have wanted us to do. His body’s gone. His remains are gone. You can’t fucking be him!”John held up a finger and moved cautiously forward to Dean’s bag, where he pulled out a bottle of holy water and proceeded to douse himself. He pulled out a silver knife from his pocket and pricked his finger. He recited Sam and Dean’s most embarrassing childhood incidents that he had been there to witness and watched as his youngest boy trembled, watched the gun waver in the big hand.“It’s him,” Dean said quietly. He touched Sam’s gun arm. “It’s him, Sammy.”It took a minute, but Dean watched as Sam calmed himself down with counting and deep breaths. He eventually allowed Dean to disentangle the gun from his grasp and watched, tears streaming like little rivers down his cheeks from red-rimmed eyes, as his brother rested the weapon gently on the motel dresser.“It’s you?” Sam asked Dad. Dad nodded.“It’s me, kiddo.”Dean wanted to run into Dad’s arms. He wanted to be four again so he could bury his face into Dad’s neck and let those strong arms pick him up.He wanted to wrap his legs around his father’s waist and be rocked into slumber, so that he could wake up in the morning. In the morning everything would be normal, and he could discount all of this shit as a terrible nightmare.But Dean didn’t do these things. He might have partaken in at least that first part where he hugged his dad. Might have. If Sam hadn’t rammed his not-so-pansy fist right into Dean’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

John leapt forward at the sound of the impact. Everything was still a little bit blurry, but he didn’t miss the crimson running down Dean’s face, or the tears running down Sammy’s.“Samuel!” he thundered, instantly feeling an ache at already having to reprimand one of his children. Sam turned to him, and hell if those red-rimmed puppy dog eyes didn’t break John’s old heart. “You don’t hit your brother.”“Funny, Dad. Because I swear to God I just did.”John ignored the jab for now, closing in on Dean, pushing his older boy down onto the bed while he, John, knelt in front of it, grabbing the strong chin, and tilting the head slightly down. Dean’s hand remained over his nose and John could’ve sworn that the boy was muffling whimpers.“Let me see it, champ.” And while it took some coaxing, John finally managed to extricate the hand from his son’s face. He breathed a sigh of relief when he was able to tell Dean that it wasn’t broken, just bleeding a little, and then promptly ordered the boy to keep his fingers pressed on the soft portion of his nose.He hadn’t heard Sam leave or come back, but the younger boy was offering a towel full of ice, his expression a startling mix of guilt and fury. John took the offering with his own mixed look (annoyance and inexplicable pride), before pressing the homemade ice pack gently against this injured son’s face. Dean allowed this for about ten seconds before taking the towel into his own hand and waving John away dismissively.John raised his eyebrows at his oldest son, surprised. Dean raised his eyebrows back, before they froze there, high on his forehead, a look of utter horror settling in to the expressive green eyes. And suddenly the towel and the ice were on the floor and Dean’s fingers were no longer pinching his nose for he had flung himself off the bed, twenty-seven-year-old arms snaking around his father’s neck, warm desperate breaths beating down against John’s throat.And John felt the pleas because there was no way in Hell in his son would utter them. Words that had only ever existed in Dean’s eyes since that night Mary burned on the ceiling.Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Daddy.Dean hadn’t held on like this since he was eight years old and John had come home late from a hunt.“I’m here, sport. I’m right here,” the older hunter murmured in his son’s hair, one arm enveloping Dean, hand stroking the muscular back. He reached the other out to Sammy, who seemed only too ready to encompass both his father and brother in his own arms, only too ready to   
bury his face in the other side of his father’s neck and breathe in those gruff scents he had resented for years.“I’m right here, boys,” he said again, his voice smooth and soothing like honey in hot tea. “I’m right here.”__________________________________Ten minutes later, Sam and Dean sat on separate beds, John on a chair at the table. Men. Strong, cool, non-hugging, totally masculine men.John got up from the chair and both Sam and Dean sat a little straighter. At attention. Good boys. Good soldiers.He paced in front of them, hands behind his back. Just like he used to when they were teenagers and he had just arrived home from a hunt, ready to distribute the appropriate amount of blame for whatever had occurred while he’d been absent.In the past, he had started talking immediately, launching into a speech about good behavior and bad behavior and consequence and safety and stupidity and responsibility. This time, however, he didn’t have a clue what to say. So he just paced.Sam was the first to crack.“Dean only has ten years left to live!” his youngest blurted.John’s stomach sank. He had expected something like this, of course, the moment he managed to steady himself on his feet, the moment he managed to make out his own face in the mirror. After he had sucked down some water and regained the ability to think. Theories had flashed through his mind like bright cracks of light, and none of them were bright cracks of light. They had been dim, dark thoughts, each one leaving him feeling hopeless and empty inside.He turned slowly to his oldest son.“Dean. Report.” His voice was heavy, laden with sadness and tinged with disappointment, and he felt sick at the way his son wouldn’t look at him. Dean hung his head like a scolded puppy, eyes on his dirty boots, shoulders rocking slightly forth and back, back and forth. “Dean. Look at me and report.” The order in John’s tone was unmistakable. Dean’s head rose slowly, and while he looked at his father’s head, he managed not to meet his eyes.“I made a deal.” And despite everything, the boy’s voice was steady, tone even. “I made a deal with a hot chick demon and I’m not sorry.”Sam released a string of swears worthy of a sailor.“Samuel,” John warned, not taking his eyes from Dean.“Well, did you hear what he just said?”“Yes. I’m old, son, not deaf. Now keep quiet while your brother explains himself.”A quick glance told him that his little boy was looking mutinous, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. Dean’s eyes were back on his boots.“Eyes at attention, young man.”Dean’s head snapped up, eyes meeting John’s, informing John that Sam wasn’t the only one looking mutinous.“I’m 27 years old,” the kid said. “I don’t have to explain myself.”John felt an old, familiar surge of irritation course through his body. “I’m your father,” he reminded Dean calmly. “And you do have to explain yourself. That’s an order. Now do it.”Dean was leveling him with an outright glare now. “Fine,” the younger hunter snapped. “I’ll explain myself. You decided it would be just fine and dandy to go ahead and make a deal with a demon to save my life, not at all considering how the hell that would make me feel, knowing my father went to Hell for me. Knowing you were suffering. Leaving me feeling guilty as fuck. I was just undoing your huge, glaring mistake.”“By making the exact same one?” John snarled. “How in the hell is that undoing this so-called ‘mistake?’”Dean’s head tilted to the side, the expression on the boy’s face not unlike that of a vicious dog regarding it’s prey. “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe they cancel each other out. Maybe it evens the score. I was as good as dead in that hospital. I was supposed to die. What you did...that’s not what was supposed to happen.” Dean stood and approached his father. “This wasn’t supposed to happen either. But you’re not in Hell anymore, are you?” The boy’s tone softened, “And we have ten years until it’s my turn.”John was torn between wanting to beat his son and wanting to hug him. The boy was looking at him with weary eyes sheltered behind a hardness,a defiance John had rarely ever witnessed in his oldest. His Dean. His little soldier. No hug, no beating. No physical emotion. “I’m unhappy with you right now,” he said instead.Anger chased hurt across Dean’s face.“Fuck you, Dad. I’ve been barely fucking hanging on.”“What you did was counterproductive to everything I’ve taught you.”“Don’t be a hypo-”  
“I’m not talking about the deal, Dean. I’m talking about self-preservation.Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to keep you boys alive. And then you just throw it all away. And for what?”Then Dean did something he had never done before, that John would never even have thought him capable of doing. He hit his father in the face. Hard.John fell. Sam scrambled to his side. Dean stood right where he was, pale and trembling ever so slightly, glare still falling on his father.“Jesus, Dean,” Sam spat, helping John to his feet.“For you, you stupid son of a bitch,” Dean hissed. “I did it for you. You were being tortured. You were burning. It said you were in so much pain you couldn’t even scream. And you have the fucking nerve to ask me why.”With that the boy slumped back down onto the bed, and resumed his staring contest with his feet.John’s heart lurched in his chest. He squeezed Sammy’s arm, whispering something about needing some food, and would Sammy please go get them some? He would? Good boy. Very good boy. He even called him “sir” in a somewhat respectful tone of voice when saying he would. What kind of jacked up alternate universe was this? Dean was hitting him and Sammy was...well, Dean was hitting him.John saw the tall boy place a quick hand on Dean’s shoulder as he passed to the motel door. He left without looking back.___________________________________There was a 24-hour diner a few blocks from the motel. It was cold outside, but Sam chose to walk for two reasons: (1) he didn’t have the key to the Impala; and (2) there was no way in hell he was going to walk back into that motel room and ask his brother for the key to the Impala.No freakin’ way. Dad and Dean needed their alone time to get all their repressed emotions hashed out. This was something Sam imagined would either be really simple and or really hard - what with both of them being utter failures in the art of communication. That wasn’t Sam’s fault. He tried to teach them - well, Dean, anyway. But no. Emotion was for chicks and gays. And Sams. Not for gruff gun-toters like Dean and Dad.The diner was warm in both color and temperature and Sam just stood fora moment, once walking in the door. Stood and allowed the warmth to soak in. And the few, but cheerful patrons, who were laughing and chatting and eating pancakes after midnight. Sam didn’t really understand these happy pancake-eaters. How could anyone laugh when, in a mere   
decade, Dean Winchester would be dead? Eviscerated by viscious hellhounds. Dead.And then it would be Sam’s turn. And probably Dad’s, too. With Dean gone, they would eviscerate each other. Sam could see it now: he and Dad bodily tearing into each other’s torsos, pulling out vital organs one by one. Just because Dean wasn’t there to stop them. And because it would probably be less painful than the years of arguing sure to follow Dean’s untimely demise.“You okay there, sweetheart?”Sam zoned back into the diner and realized that the 40-something-year-old waitress was talking to him. He gave her an apologetic smile.“Sorry. Have a lot on my mind.”She smiled a smile of bright white teeth and he felt even warmer. He took a seat at the counter and she leaned forward on an elbow.“You looked both angry and amused. That’s a funny expression, sugar.”Sam grinned. “Yeah, I was thinking about my family.”She laughed, and it was that pleasant kind of laugh, that tinkling kind that sounded like bells.“That explains it. What can I get for you?”Sam ordered two burgers - one for Dad, and one for Dean- and a salad for himself. “Oh,” he said. “And do you have any pie?”“Sure do, baby. We have apple, blueberry, key lime, and lemon meringue.”“Could I get three slices of blueberry? All to go? Thanks.”Sam’s phone rang as the waitress started getting his order to go. He smiled, excused himself, and walked outside, wondering if Dean was calling to say he’d killed Dad or or if Dad was calling to say that he had killed Dean.Pulling out his phone, he realized he was wrong on both counts. It was Ellen. And she had a job for them to do._________________________________Dean couldn’t believe that he had hit his father. His hand hurt and he was resisting the urge to wave it around in the air. He was only vaguely aware of Sammy leaving, of the reassuring hand placed on his shoulder for that millisecond of time. He kind of heard the door shut, but it could have been his imagination.He didn’t imagine the bed depressing with new weight, though. Or Dad’s closeness, the way they were so close their knees bumped together. He   
wondered what Dad would say. Maybe he would yell, maybe he would speak in that voice that was so quiet and so harsh that it was not only like yelling, but worse than yelling.But Dad didn’t say anything, and Dean didn’t imagine that either. He was reckless, young, and a little stupid...but he wasn’t deaf. And he didn’t imagine too much. He didn’t have to. He’d seen a lot of fucked up shit in his twenty seven years.That’s why he knew that when he felt Dad’s lips press against his head and felt those words that Dad would never say, the unspoken I’m sorry behind the sentiment - that’s why he knew that it was real.“Didn’t wanna hit you.”“You do it again and you’ll regret it.”“Yes, sir. M’sorry.”“Don’t be.”They sat like that for a long time, legs bumping together, deep in silent thought._______________________________Burgers took a really long time to make, Sam reflected, a hand propping his chin up as he sipped on the delicious strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry to boot (on the house from the waitress who was still regarding him with a mother’s indulgent gaze.) Sam had this effect on women.He hadn't told Ellen about Dad being alive. He wasn't sure if he should or not. But he had promised they would stop by The Roadhouse, since the gig was in the same area...so Ellen was going to find out one way or the other.He wondered if he had left his father and brother alone for too long, even though that had never actually been an issue. Those two worshipped each other. Dad was Dean’s superhero, Dean was Dad’s idea of perfect. Sam was the black sheep waiting on the burgers and the blueberry pie.Sam would bet his entire Stanford education that Dad and Dean had engaged in a manly hug and were now cleaning guns and laughing over old times including but not limited to: exorcisms, beheadings, saltings and burnings of particularly gross corpses, and who could forget? That magnificent time when Dean was 19 and got that infected wound. For three days straight, he walked around naked and loopy and full of the kind of deep-seated insight you only heard out of potheads with particularly high IQs.  
“Hear that, Sammy?” Dad had asked 15-year-old Sam, a rare affectionate smile gracing his scruffy face. “Your big brother. The nudist philosopher.”Sam snorted into his milkshake at the memory as his favorite waitress packed the last two styrofoam cartons into a big paper bag. Yeah. They were definitely good by now. Hell, the last time he had left them alone together......When Dad had asked Sam to get him some caffeine......Dad had asked Sam to get him some food...And Sam had dropped the cup on the floor because Dad had been on the floor and the cup was for Dad and the cup should be where Dad was. On the floor. Spilled on the floor. Dead on the floor.“Thanks for the milkshake, ma’am,” he said shakily.“You okay, baby?”“Yeah, uh...I’m fine. I just gotta go. Thanks again.” He grabbed the bag, threw some money at her and was out the door before she could utter a response.__________________________________“What if your car was baby blue?” John teased as Dean scowled at the television. They were watching a car restoration show on cable - the car being restored was a baby blue 1967 Chevy Impala. They were on the same bed. Dean was on his stomach his legs swinging behind him, reminding John of when his boy was two decades younger. John was leaning against the headboard trying to forget that Dean only had one more decade to age.“Who the hell would paint such a beautiful car that ugly ass color?” Dean groused.“I would. For your next birthday. The big 2-8.”“No. You wouldn’t.” Dean sounded horrified.“I would. Only not baby blue. Something more unique...like sunshine yellow. You’d like that...wouldn’t you, dude? Sunshine yellow?”“I’m confused, Dad. Did someone tell you you were funny? Because you’re not.”“Sorry, son. I forgot. You see, I got hit kind of hard in the head...I don’t remember what did it, exactly, but I think it was a fist.”  
Dean craned his neck around to look at his father’s bruising face. He opened his mouth to utter another apology but John grinned reassuringly before the words could come out.“Bet it was the manliest fist in the world,” Dean said instead, turning back to the television. “And where the hell is Sammy? I’m starving.”Sam must be omniscient, John thought as the door burst open and his youngest son rushed in toting a large brown bag and looking absolutely frantic.“Are you okay?” both John and Dean demanded in unison, practically leaping from the bed.“Is something after you?”“Are you hurt?”John reached the door in three long strides and poked his head out. Nothing to the left, nothing to the right. Nothing straight ahead. He backed back into the motel room and shut the door quickly behind him.“I didn’t see anything,” he announced, turning around just in time to catch an armful of Sam.“You’re alive,” the boy whispered roughly. John felt a wetness against his cheek and he knew Sam was crying. This kid and his emotions, the older hunter thought, feeling a lump rising in his own throat.“Yeah, kiddo,” he said. “I’m alive.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke up in the same clothes he had worn the day before. Dean woke up to find his legs entangled with Sam’s legs. Dean woke up only to jerk quickly away, hurling an arm out to push his sleeping brother off the bed.“...the fuck?” Dean grumbled in time with Sam’s very similar yell.“Why’d you push me?” his little brother demanded, picking himself up off the floor. He flung himself defiantly back onto the bed, shoving Dean far to the other side.“Why were you in my bed?” Dean returned with a smack to Sam’s arm. “Just because I’m constantly callin’ you a girl doesn’t give you the right to crawl into my...my love space!”Sam snorted. “Your ‘love space’?”“Your damn right my love space. Every bed is my love space. Every table is my love space. Every wall, floor, and shower is my love space. And, dude...these are all places you have no right to be.”Sam’s face crinkled into an all-too-cute picture of disgust before he shook his head and rolled his eyes. Then his eyes shot to the left and he asked, “Where the hell is Dad?”Dean rolled over and groaned. The other bed was not only abandoned, but impeccably made, complete with military corners. It was as if it had never been slept in, as if the night before had all been some sort of crazy fantasy, or nightmare, or some word that didn’t exist to describe the potentially fictitious situation of Dean dying for Dad. Was it good? Was it bad? Or maybe it just was. A gray area. Dean hated gray areas. Dean liked black and white. Kill the bad, save the good. Yahtzee.“Maybe he went out to get us breakfast,” Dean suggested, hoping his voice didn’t belie his doubt.“Maybe.” Sam hit his brother in the arm again, this time lightly. Dean didn’t hit back. Brotherly camaraderie. A punch in the arm that didn’t signify irritation, but spoke volumes about what might have just happened, and what to do if it had. Dad may have picked up and left them, again, but Sam hadn’t, and Dean hadn’t. And if Dad had left, like the bastard he was perfectly capable of being, then Dean still had Sam. And Sam still had Dean. And they would be just fine.Eventually.“You wanna shower first?” Sam asked.“You go ‘head. I’m just gonna catch a little more shut eye.”And Sam went to the bathroom. And Dean slipped his lids over his eyes. Tears leaked anyway, like broken dams and trickling rivers.  
___________________________________________Three different sizes. Small. Large. Huge. John’s eyes trailed over them as he considered. Small was out of the question, obviously. That was like a single serving for each of his boys, and then they’d want more. Or there would be a tiny amount left after the fact that would have them going at it. The two of them, rolling around the floor, landing punches in the ribs, guts, arms...just because John had been cheap. And John would get frustrated and yell and say something that he didn’t mean and somebody would leave. And somebody might be Sam. Or John. Or both. And Dean would die alone in ten years full of resentment and self-loathing.John made a quick decision and threw the huge-ass box of Lucky Charms into his basket.The boys would need milk and bowls and spoons. And beer.Yeah, they all needed beer.The middle-aged woman at checkout rolled her eyes at his selections and grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “men” under her breath. John gave her the most charming grin he could muster, throwing in a sheepish eyebrow shrug for kicks. She melted like butter.“You have a nice day, sir,” she said.John walked the three blocks back to the motel laden with paper grocery bags, smiling pleasantly in greeting at his fellow sidewalk pedestrians all the way. It was weird.Even John was aware that it was weird. He wasn’t really the type to smile at anyone without rhyme or reason. But here he was, smiling just for the sake of smiling. And people smiled back, like it was all good. Like John was a friendly sort of man armed with Lucky Charms and booze, the kind of guy people expected to smile. It was cold and John’s ears were freezing, but the sun was shining and the wind was still, and his boys were in the motel, sleeping away the night’s family angst and John was alive, damnit. And not in Hell. And he might not have remembered it at all, but it was so goddamned pretty not to be in Hell.He wiped the smile from his face once he reached the door to their motel room. He didn’t want to freak the boys out. They might think he was possessed. He knocked on the door, three firm bangs of his fist, just like he had when the boys were little to let them know it was him.He heard some shuffling come from inside, heard the pause and the breathing just on the other side of the door as he was examined through the peephole, and then there was Sam with wet hair and no shirt shivering from the sudden rush of cold air.“Dad?”  
His son sounded surprised to see him. John ignored all that the tone of voice implied, walking quickly in and closing the door. Sammy was wet and cold and barely clothed.“Finish dressing, Sammy. I got you boys some breakfast.”He heard the shower. Dean was in the shower. Everything was here. Everything was still fine. Still pretty.___________________________________“Yeah?” Sam asked. He turned around, picked up a T-shirt from his duffle and tugged it on. “Dean said that’s probably where you’d gone.” Sam, of course, had thought his Dad had skipped out somehow. Gotten a ride to the bus station. Went to find the demon. Of course, he would never say that. Not with his Dad just newly alive and having breakfast for them. “I, of course, thought you’d skipped town the second we fell asleep.” Or maybe he would.He turned back around to fix his father with his patented Sam Winchester Gaze of Defiance only to find his father standing at the table pouring Lucky Charms into two bowls.He quirked an eyebrow in surprise.“What are we? Six?” he demanded.“Oh, sweet! Lucky Charms!” Dean exclaimed. Sam whirled around to find his big brother incredibly wet and holding a towel around his waist, green eyes bright and beaming at their father. “Thanks, Dad!”Only a hint of a smile passed over John’s face, but his eyes were warm. “You're welcome, buddy.”“There’s this thing called modesty, Dean,” Sam sniped as his older brother dropped his towel and began pulling on his clothes. His brother was like a two-year-old who couldn’t keep his diaper on, for chrissakes. He looked to his father to back him up, but all he got was,“Dry off before you get dressed, Dean-o.”“Yessir,” Dean replied, all obedience and good-nature.“Sammy, eat your breakfast.”“I don’t eat sugar cereals anymore, Dad. You would know this about me if you paid any attention after I turned twelve.”“Sammy just doesn’t want to get fat again, Dad.”“Shut up, Dean.”“Sammy-”  
“It’s Sam.”Sam watched with some satisfaction as his father’s jaw clenched, as the patience and good humor left the man’s eyes. Good. Things could get back to normal. No more of this twilight zone Perfect Daddy crap.Dad’s fingers went up to massage his temples. He took a few steps closer to Sam. Sam didn’t back down.“Sam,” he tried again. “We’re in for a long drive today. Could you please just eat so we don’t have to stop immediately after we get started?”Dean, now fully dressed, skirted around them to take a seat around at the far end of the table. Pointedly ignoring them, he dug into his Lucky Charms with a plastic spoon and a substantial amount of gusto.Dad had asked politely enough, stated a good enough reason for Sam to eat. And Sam was about to begrudge him a sullen “yessir” or at the very least a snappy “fine,” but what came out instead was an insolent, “No.”“Aw. C’mon, Sammy...” Dean pleaded through a mouthful of cereal.Dad hushed him with a look. Leveled Sam with a glare. “I’m done asking nice. Sit your ass down and eat your breakfast, Samuel, before I sit it down for you.”Sam rolled his eyes. “You can’t make me eat.”Yep. Everything was totally back to normal. It was like the previous night had been nothing but one of those dreams that was now hard to remember, one of those dreams that while he’d dreampt it, had been blurry around the edges. Warm hugs and rare kisses and whispered thanks. No, that had all been one freakin’ weird dream.But, this? This felt right.Dad started closing the remaining space between them with quick strides and Sam waited. Waited for the rough hand to grasp his collar and haul him over to the table. To dump him in a chair. To bark another order.Dad’s hand came down on Sam’s ass. Hard.Sam yipped. He didn’t think, just lunged for the table and sat down. Instinct. Survival. Then he shook his head, regained his wits, demanded, “What the fuck, Dad?”“Eat before I decide that wasn’t enough,” Dad ordered, sounding vaguely amused.Sam spluttered, “You can’t...I can’t believe you...Dad, I’m twenty-three years old.”  
Dean snorted. He reached for the huge box of Lucky Charms in the center of the table and began pouring himself another bowl. “Dad, if you spank Sammy again I’m going to have to call Child Protective Services on you.”“Christo!” Sam snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Dad.Dean laughed. Dad quirked a smile, looking at Sam like he was just the cutest thing. Then he sobered.“Sam, I meant it. Eat.”Sam made to retort, but the mild heat in his backside made him rethink the action. His father couldn’t possibly be serious, but the man had just been resurrected. By a demon. From Hell. Who knew what kind of weird shit he was into now?He poured his milk into his cereal and began shoveling the cereal and colorful marshmallows into his mouth with angry zest. And damn, was it good. He’d forgotten Lucky Charms. He’d forgotten how...how magically delicious they were. He tried not to let the pleasure show on his face. He cast a death glare on his big brother over his spoon. Dean shot him a toothy grin.“They’re awesome. Aren’t they, Sammy?”Sam swallowed. “No,” he said. Then he shoveled more into his mouth. He almost choked when something started rubbing at his head.“Settle down, Sam,” Dad quietly rumbled, rubbing the towel with gentle ease through Sam’s still wet hair. Sam quieted and tried not to lean into his father’s ministrations. Resurrected. By a demon. From Hell. Weird shit.Yeah.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean didn’t really understand why he was in the backseat of his own freakin’ car. Sam claimed it was because Dean’s legs were shorter and therefore didn’t need the space of the front seat. Dean didn’t accept this claim as just. It wasn’t his fault that Sammy was a freak.“It’s not my fault I have a freakin’ giant for a little brother,” he had argued. “You can stretch out in back if you have to.”Dean could consider it punishment for hitting his father, Dad had told him while pointing to his cheek, splotched purple and ugly.“Oh...what? Did Sammy not hit me? Was that all some incredibly vivid dream?” Dean had retorted, pointing to his own bruised nose. “Am I not really sportin’ some godawful Marcia Brady action here?”To which Sam had pointed at Dean, snickering, “Girl.”And when Dean had moved forward in order to exact some righteous vengeance with his fists, Dad had grabbed his collar and bodily thrown him into the back of Dean’s precious baby, growling an ominous “stay put” before taking his own place behind the wheel.So yeah...there was really no reasonable explanation for why Dean was suffering this injustice. It didn’t make any sense. Sam had been a huge brat all morning and Dean was the one shunned to the veritable kiddy table.Now Dean was sitting silently in the back as Sam’s head lolled against the passenger side window. His brother’s snores were barely audible, but they were there, like soft whistles in the silence. Dad had turned off Dean’s copy of Back in Black about two hundred miles ago. Dean had let out a sigh of aggravation but refrained from arguing.Dean shifted, stretched his right arm, grunting a little as his shoulder cracked. He looked up and caught Dad’s eye in the rear view.“You done pouting back there, champ?”Dean huffed audibly through his nose. “Who’s pouting?”“You are.”“M’not.”Dad’s eyes flickered back to the rear view, then to the road. Dean didn’t bother to mention that being thrown into the back of the car like a piece of useless garbage was a sufficient reason to pout, if that was what he was indeed doing. He didn’t bother to mention that it might hurt just a little that Sam the Little Big Bitch automatically got front seat when Dean was second in command, when it was Dean who was the one who did everything for this goddamn family, including bringing Dad back from the freakin’ dead.  
But did any of that matter? Obviously not.“You have to go to the bathroom yet, kiddo?” Dad asked.“I’m twenty-seven, Dad,” Dean snapped, feeling as if he’d said it like a million times in the past 15 hours. “I think I have reasonable control over my bladder.”Dean looked into the rearview to see Dad’s jaw clench.“Watch the attitude, Dean.”Dean clenched his own jaw, ground his teeth, bit his tongue.“Dean?” Dad pressed.“Yessir. I’ll watch the attitude.”“Good. Now we’re going to stop at this rest stop about five miles ahead. So I suggest if you have to go, you go. Then I’m going to let you drive and Sammy can have the back. Then the two of you can catch me up on what’s been going on since my...since I’ve been gone.”“I don’t wanna sit in the back,” Sam mumbled sleepily, turning his head to plant bleary eyes on their father.“I wasn’t askin’ what you wanted, Sammy boy. I was tellin’ you what was going to happen.”“There you go again. Always just barking orders like we’re children.”Dean snorted. Sam sounded like he was trying to give Dad a mature critiquing of his controlling behavior, but it just came out as a childish whine.Dad reached over and ruffled Sam’s shaggy hair. Sam swiped at the intrusive hand with his own flailing hands, growling menacingly in the process.“I gotta pee,” the youngest Winchester announced. “How far till the rest stop?”“Three miles,” Dad said.Sam craned his neck and looked back at Dean, large hands still wiping at tired eyes. Dean pointedly ignored him.“You can get vending machine pie, Dean,” his little brother said. And Dean knew that the pointing out of this little fact was more of an offering,an apology, than a simple stating of the obvious. This was Sam’s non-girl way of saying I’m sorry I took the front seat from you. Let’s hug.“That stuff’s disgusting. And it’s nothing like pie,” Dean grumbled.“But it’s called pie on the wrapper,” Sam grinned. “And you love it.”  
“Do not.”“Do so. You especially love the cherry kind.”“Do not. Cherry kind’s delicious.”“Do...wha-?Dean.”“No comeback, Sammy? Mr. I-Was-Pre-Law-At-Stanford can’t argue the merits of vending machine pie?”“We’re...you just contradicted yourself. And that’s not what we’re arguing!”“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s exactly what we’re arguing.” Dean grinned at his brother. Sam was so easy after a car nap.“You’re a dumb jerk,” Sammy groused. The younger boy shifted around, cracked his neck, returned his face to the windshield.“Better than being a little bitch,” Dean returned without heat. A quick lean forward caught him a glimpse of his brother’s profile. The kid was grinning in amusement.Well, at least Sam would always appreciate him.llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllThe rest area was fairly typical, John mused. Truckers - short and fat, tall and thin, stout and spry - sporting inordinate amounts of facial hair and those god-awful hats tromped from their semis to the bathrooms. Nuclear families in the parking lots stood around their mini-vans and station wagons, mothers and fathers arguing loud and soft, boys and girls pushing and shoving, the occasional lab or golden retriever tugging at a too short leash. America at its finest.John got out of the Impala, tugged the seat forward to let Dean out. He let out a sigh, watching his breath dance in the cold air. Sam took a minute to yawn in the car before he, too, got out and then they all stretched, their bodies cracking from the cramped 5 hour drive. The Winchesters were tall men. Sam let out another big yawn and John bit back a smile. His youngest looked for all the world like a tired puppy.“Bathroom,” the boy mumbled before taking off in that exact direction.Dean made to follow but John was quick to grab his older boy by the collar of his jacket and tug him back.“Quit manhandlin’ me, Dad. I didn’t do anything,” Dean snapped, moving to jerk out of his father’s grasp but failing.John wasn’t used to these tiny acts of rebellion by his oldest and was unsurprised to find that they grated all too easily on his tender nerves.   
“Settle down, Dean,” he growled. What did surprise him, however, was the resentful glare his boy shot him before relaxing in his hold.John released his grip, hand creeping up to rest on the back of Dean’s neck. The kid huffed quietly but leaned back into the affectionate gesture.“You mad at me?” John asked.“You’re actually asking?”“Just did, didn’t I?”Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before looking straight ahead, avoiding John’s gaze. He was silent for a few moments too long and John could tell that he was weighing the pros and cons of honesty. “M’not mad at you,” the boy said finally. “I just don’t like being ordered around in my own car is all.”It was a half-truth and John could tell, but he’d let it go for now. “I want to thank you for not complaining. Your brother...well, if it had been him, he wouldn’t have stopped. I didn’t want to lose my temper with him.” I’m trying, John wanted to tell his son, but couldn’t.“‘Kay,” was all Dean said. “I need to take a leak.”John gave him one last affectionate squeeze on the back of the neck before letting him go. Watching Dean stalk off to the bathroom he was left with a weary feeling at the bottom of his stomach, as if he hadn’t solved anything at all.Ten minutes later, all three Winchesters had emptied their bladders and were back in the Impala. John resisted the urge to wipe Dean’s mouth as the cherry goo from the overly-processed vending machine pie dribbled down his son’s chin.“Delicious,” the boy practically swooned, his mouth entirely too full as he predictably rolled his eyes into his lids in an orgasmic expression. John tried not to scold as the boy accelerated the car and shoved in a Steppenwolf cassette. He hadn’t seen Dean this relaxed in...well...years.For the next few hundred miles the boys told him all about their adventures since John’s untimely demise. Ellen and Jo, clowns, Gordon Walker (John mentally filed away a reminder to end that son of a bitch), and most importantly, Andy the psychic.“He could control people’s thoughts and actions,” Sam said. “He got Dean to give him the Impala.”“Shut up,” Dean told his brother. “Andy’s awesome, Dad. He has this van with a lady warrior riding a polar bear painted on it. And there was a disco ball inside. And there was a-”“Gigantic bong,” Sam interjected.  
They told him the story in detail. How they thought Andy was killing people with his mind only to discover the very terrifying and vaguely amusing fact of how it was actually Andy’s evil twin. They told him about the birth mother lighting herself on fire and Dean mentioned how bad it smelled. Sam told him about the final showdown and Dean added in that he had put a gun under his own chin and nearly blown his own head off, adetail that had John reaching to touch his son’s hair and neck just to make sure that he was really still there.“But then Andy shot him,” Dean said quietly, his skin tingling under his father’s fingertips. “He’s a good kid.” Then, more pointedly, “Like Sammy.”John wasn’t sure if he imagined the slight tremble to the voice, but he definitely felt it on the boy’s skin. He swallowed, his saliva like acid burning down his throat, through his body. Dean’s eyes didn’t flicker from the road, but John saw the skin over his boy’s jaw tighten, saw the Adam’s apple rise and fall with his boy’s own large swallow. John pulled his hand away.He hated himself then. So much. It was like a knife cutting through his guts, a pain so all-consuming that in that moment he couldn’t feel anything else. But he could think. He could remember. He could remember the wary gaze of his eldest child as he told him, voice marked with love and regret, how proud he was of Dean, how proud he was of the way the boy carried the family - how sorry he was that Dean had to be the one to do it.And John had been lucky. He hadn’t stayed to see Dean’s shoulders break under the weight. If you can’t save your brother, he’d said, you’ll have to kill him.“Like you,” John said now, without really realizing he was speaking. “I have good kids.”He came to his senses to realize that Dean was now looking at him, glancing at the road every other second to make sure he was staying on track. He turned his head to the back of the car where Sammy was also peering at him from behind long bangs, eyes suspicious.“What?” he asked.Dean glanced at his brother through the rear view.“Christo.” The unity was so perfect, John would have thought it was rehearsed.“Can’t I be proud of my children?”“No.”“If you two say one more thing in unison...”  
“Dude, I’m driving the car here. You can’t pull over,” Dean reminded him.John cocked an eyebrow. “No...but you’re going to have to pull over sometime. And if I’m not mistaken, we’ve almost hit our destination.”It was dark. It had been dark for hours, but John remembered the way well. He hadn’t seen Ellen since Bill, but the closer they got to The Roadhouse, the fresher the pain felt, the rawer the guilt.John stretched his arm over, returning his hand to the back of Dean’s head, running his fingers through the short hair. If the boy was freaked out by how much his father was touching him, he wasn’t showing it. He just allowed it to continue, eyes not straying from the road now as he drove on.lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllThe Roadhouse sign was bright and warm in contrast to the dark nothing outside. Sam was thankful that there weren’t many trucks parked out front. Who knew how his father’s sudden return was going to go over? Gordon Walker had known Dad, had known Dad was dead. What if they, all the other hunters, thought John was supernatural, a fresh new hunt?“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Sam said, grabbing Dad’s arm before the man could make his way for the entrance.Dad swung around to look at him, his face expressing momentary irritation, before softening.“What’s wrong, Sammy?”“What if they try to kill you? I mean you came back from the dead...what if they think you should have stayed dead?”Dean snorted. “They can’t kill Dad.”Sam looked from his father to his brother. He couldn’t help but notice Dean’s word choice. Can’t. They can’t kill Dad. Not they won’t kill Dad. His brother was still surviving under the delusion that their father was some sort of superhero, something more than a man.“He’s already been taken from us once, Dean. He’s not immortal.”“I’m well aware.”“Are you? Because you don’t seem to be thinking that going into a hunters’ hangout is a risk for a man resurrected by a demon.”“Jesus, Sam. It’s not like he’s a psychic.”“Shut up, Dean.”“That’s enough.” Dad’s voice wasn’t raised, but it held a kind of firm finality that made both his sons freeze. “Sam’s right. It’s a risk. But,” he   
added, gently prying Sam’s hand from his arm, “we’re going to look out for each other and we’re going to be just fine. I don’t think there’s too many in there, anyway. It’s going to be okay. Okay, kiddo?” He waited for Sam to reluctantly nod before turning to Dean. “And I want you to start thinking before acting, mister.”“Aw, Dad, don’t ‘mister’ me. I’m not six.”Dad ignored him. “And if I hear you picking on your brother’s abilities again, you’re going to be in trouble. Are we clear?”“C’mon, Dad-”“Dean.”“Yessir, we’re clear.”It was all Sam could do to not to stick his tongue out at his older brother.“Good. Now, do you boys have your guns?” Both boys nodded and quickly showed their father their weapons. “Good boys. In we go.”And as Sam followed his brother and father to the entrance of the destitute bar, an amazing feeling washed over him. It was something weird, but familiar. Something he’d searched for his entire life. Something that wasn’t happy or sad; neither exciting, nor boring. But it was elating. For the first time ever that he was with his family, Sam Winchester felt normal.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean didn’t remember too much about high school. He had usually stumbled in half-asleep, sat at his desk, laid his head down on his arms, and fallen back into much-need slumber. He remembered lunch, though. He remembered the slight spring to his step as he had entered the cafeteria and scuttled to the line to wait for food. From the line, he’d been able to watch other people come in. The geeks, goths, losers, stoners, freaks, poetry kids, art kids, the kids who were too skinny to hide from the kids who were too big to let them...and then there were the jocks, cheerleaders, the popular kids. The rich kids. The minority who, apparently, had “ruled” the school. Dean remembered what it was like when one of those kids had been shunned. He remembered what it looked like when they had entered the cafeteria. He remembered the widened eyes, then the quick avoidance of eye contact. The low voices, the whispers, the scandalized words hidden behind hands like shields.Those kids had been blond and clean and good-looking. So it was a little weird to see these grubby unshaven hunters in their torn clothing and aged skin doing exactly the same thing, their hands twitching to point at Dean’s father.Dean looked over his shoulder to his brother who was noticing the same behavior. Sam nodded quickly and the two came out from behind Dad to walk at his sides. Dean kept glancing at the mirror far in front of them, kept his ears open for sounds coming from behind.Ellen wasn’t behind the bar, but Ash was seated at the far end, going over something with a fierce-looking man of about fifty. He glanced up, caught Dean’s eye, and waved cheerfully.“Dude, where’s Ellen?” Dean called, ignoring the glare the angry hunter was shooting his way. Dean wasn’t one to care too much about being discourteous. He made a quick sweep of the room with his eyes. No Jo, either.“In back, man, she’ll be back out in a sec,” Ash called back. Dean nodded and glanced again at the hunter, who had stopped glaring at Dean, and whose eyes were now fixed like glitter to glue on Dad. They didn’t sparkle all happy like glitter did, though. In fact, the man’s eyebrows were bushy and lacked an arch, so when the man narrowed them at Dad he resembled an incredibly unkempt caveman...or perhaps a very angry ape.“Winchester!” he barked. “I thought I heard you was dead!”He got off the bar stool and started coming at them all slow-like, like he was lulling them into a false sense of security. Dean made to move in front of his father, but Dad’s hand grabbed onto the back of his jacket and roughly pulled him straight.  
“Settle,” Dad growled quietly. Dean looked up at Sammy over Dad’s head.Sammy was wearing his patented bitchface, evidence that the same thing had happened to him.The man reached them and held his meaty hand out to Dad. Dad looked at it for a moment, as if considering the consequences of a snub, then took it and shook it firmly in his own.“Greatly exaggerated rumors,” John grunted. “How ya doin’, Ted?”“Same ol’,” Ted grunted back. Not for the first time, Dean wondered if you had to grunt in order to be a respected hunter. Dean grunted sometimes when he was feeling particularly cranky, or when it was early in the morning, or when Sammy was being really obnoxious. Sammy didn’t grunt all that much in normal conversation either. It wasn’t really fitting with the Winchester boys’ quirks and wiles.Something hit him in the side of his right butt cheek, bringing Dean out of his reverie. He looked over at Sam, the obvious assailant, and scowled. “Dude, don’t touch my ass,” he hissed behind Dad’s back. Sam’s eyes looked purposefully past Dean in response.And out of the side of his left eye, Dean realized that nobody was seated anymore. They were all standing, taking a slow step forward, stopping, then taking another step. Like a pack of wild beasts stalking their prey.He focused back in on Dad and Ted just in time to see a knife in Ted’s hand. It was just suddenly there. Like it had come out of nowhere. Like Ted was some kind of freakish knife-wielding magician or some shit. His dad was quicker, though, and soon the knife was kicked out of the hand altogether and the two men were landing punches and kicks all over the place.Leaving Dean and his baby brother to the hungry wolves.“What kind of dark shit did you boys do?” one of the hunters asked, fingering a particularly nasty-looking pistol. “Dead daddies don’t just come back from the grave without a little help.”“These ones don’t understand the job,” another hunter said. “Walker told me that on his last hunt they tried to stop him from killin’ some vampire bitch.”Well, Dean thought, those just aren’t the facts. He looked over to Sam who gave a barely perceptible shake of his shaggy head. Dean ignored it.“Walker’s a liar,” he announced to the room. About ten sets of eyes narrowed.“Them’s a large accusation, little boy. Are you sayin’ you didn’t try to stop him?” the first hunter asked.  
Dean grinned. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We didn’t try to stop him. We damn well did stop him. Then we knocked him out, tied him to a chair, and left him for three days to rot in his own shit and piss.”“Dean,” Sam groaned.“We don’t encourage lies that make us look anything less than manly, Sammy,” Dean replied, his hand flashing into his jacket to bring out his gun.Though it was a little too late for that. That pistol was already trained directly on his head. This was fine with Dean. It was the only gun out in the room that he could see and if it was trained on him, that meant it wasn’t on Sammy. Other hunters were trickling away, in the direction that Dad and Ted had rolled off in. A glance told Dean that that was still going on, that his father wasn’t beaten, not yet.“Put it down, boy,” the hunter snarled. “Before I shoot you and yer brother like the puppies y’are.” Dean raised his hands in surrender, put the gun on the floor, and stood back up, hands still raised.“You shoot puppies?” he asked, looking horrified.“Dean.” Sam sounded desperate now.“What did you do?” the hunter asked again. “What the hell is he?”“He’s a man,” Sam snapped. “He’s who he’s always been. Why can’t you narrow-minded sons of bitches see that? We wouldn’t have come in here if he was anything else.”“Men don’t come back from the dead.”“You mean inbred assholes like you don’t come back from the dead,” Dean mumbled. He didn’t really know what he was thinking. Or if he was thinking. But he was regretting it as soon as the words left his mouth, hoping that the man with the gun hadn’t heard the insult.But the hunter had heard it and it seemed that insults pertaining to inbreeding were the last straw. The man cocked the pistol and a shot rangout.lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllI will not kill Dean, John told himself as he glared viciously down at Leroy Kuykendall, who was moaning in pain and clutching his shot leg. The gun was heavy in John’s hand. I will not kill Dean. I will not kill my son.“Were you really going to shoot my boy in the head?” John snarled, tapping the man’s open, bleeding wound with his dirty boot. “Are you really that stupid?”  
“What the fuck are you, Winchester?” Leroy cried, dragging his leg slowly away from John.“As I believe my youngest already pointed out, I’m a man. You should believe him. He’s a smart kid. Full-ride to Stanford.” John kicked the fallen pistol in Sam’s direction and watched with satisfaction as the boy cautiously knelt to pick it up.“Dad...” Dean’s voice came from behind him.John looked up from Leroy and to his boy with eyes full of warning, but the kid just nodded in the direction John had come from, where he had left four men groaning and aching on the ground. They were hunched over now, but on their feet, eyes hardened on John. Ted and one other had guns in their hands, one aimed on his boys (Sam still half-knelt and Dean still defenseless), the other on John.John felt a small worm of panic slither through his intestines, a worm that was defeated almost instantly by the surprise that jolted him when another shot rang out and a chair inches away from Ted exploded, showering the injured hunters with wood chips and splinters.“You boys best be gettin’ out of here now,” a deep female drawl came from behind the bar. John’s eyes flashed over to Ellen, who looked about as big as the shotgun in her hands and twice as dangerous. “Kitchen’s closed for the night. I ain’t in no mood to deal with a buncha gun-totin’ half-wits.” She looked around, her dark eyes sparking fire, waiting for someone to argue with her.John’s throat went dry. Ellen. He’d told himself that he hadn’t forgotten Ellen, but he was wrong. He’d forgotten the force that was Ellen, a woman so small made so large by the hardness of life and the loss of love. He remembered Ellen before Bill’s death. The way she cared, patched his wounds, spoke words so gentle and carefully phrased.“John Winchester,” she said now, shotgun still aimed at the men tucking their guns back into their jackets, eyes on the ones stumbling out the door. “It’s good to see you again.”John couldn’t quite quell the toothy grin that spread across his face.“Hi, Ellen,” Sam said, his voice sounding hopeful and apologetic. He was still standing defensively, his eyes dwindling on the other hunters moving past his father.“Sam, sweetie,” Ellen acknowledged.John noticed that Dean didn’t say anything, just bent down to retrieve his own gun.“If any of you care about Kuykendall there, you’ll help him outside. Otherwise he’s gonna lay there bleeding all night!” Ellen announced. Two   
hunters scrambled to help Leroy up, taking his arms over their shoulders and dragging him out.Another minute passed and the bar was vacant except for John and his boys, the guy with the mullet Dean had called Ash, and Ellen, who uncocked her shotgun and set it behind the bar with a kind of nonchalance you couldn’t fake. They were all quiet for a moment.Then John was almost thrown back by the 100-something pound force that was Ellen, her tiny arms fitting around his waist, her face buried into his chest, her fist giving his back a series of none-too-gentle pats. He placed a tentative hand on her back in return and they stayed like that for not-too-long before she backed away.“How?” she asked.John looked at his eldest, whose eyes were planted firmly on a dartboard at the front of the room.“Dean, you want to answer Ellen?”“No. She asked you.”John felt his blood boil. I will not kill Dean. I will not kill my son.“Well, I’m telling you to answer for me. It was your doing after all.”“Sammy can tell her. He told you. He’s good at telling. Little tattling pain in the-”Something unexplainable and electric propelled John forward then. Before Dean could say the word ‘ass,’ John’s hand was wrapped tightly around the kid’s arm and he was dragging all 6’1” of his son to the table farthest from the bar and throwing him into a chair. The kid landed limp, boneless,the only sign of rebellion shining out of the green eyes as Dean looked up at his father through long lashes.John put an elbow onto the table, leaned forward, pressed his forehead against his kid’s forehead, stared into those eyes until all hint of mutiny was taken over by regret and nervousness.“Dean made a deal, Ellen,” he said loud enough for the others to hear, pulling his head back from Dean’s, feeling only a little satisfied when the boy’s eyes stayed submissively down. “Demon brought me back in exchange for Dean. He pays up in ten years.”Ellen’s jaw dropped. “Ten years...boy’s not even gonna make it ten years he stands around provoking people with guns pointed at his head like he was tonight,” she said, her deep voice laced with a quiet fury.“You heard that?” Sam asked, sounding vaguely surprised. Realization dawned on his face as he looked at John, then at Dean.  
“That’s right, Sam. I heard it, too,” John informed his youngest.“But, Dad...you had, like, four guys on you...” Sam sputtered. Then, eyes narrowing, voice accusing, “You do have super hearing.”John almost laughed. Almost. The boys hadn’t brought up super hearing since Sam was about 12 years old.He looked down at Dean again before lowering his head once more to touch his kid’s.“I don’t know what’s got you so reckless,” he said quietly enough so only he and Dean could hear. “But this doesn’t happen again. Your smart mouth is taking a vacation until I know that you can control it. You’re gonna reign in the cocky attitude. You’re gonna be a respectful, humble citizen or you’re going to be incredibly sorry. Do you understand?”“Yessir.”“You’re gonna sit right here and you’re not gonna move until I tell you it’s okay. You’re going to think about what you did and why it was wrong and why I’m disappointed in you right now.”The hurt was raw on Dean’s face as John pulled away and the older hunter had to choke down all his paternal instincts that screamed words like “comfort!” and “nurture!” at him. No, Dean needed this. The boy had been stupid. He found, though, that it was nearly as hard to leave his twenty-seven year old son looking like a kicked puppy as it had been when the kid was ten, six, and three.John didn’t look back, just sat himself on one of the bar stools and motioned for everyone else to sit as well. He heard Dean’s leather-clad arms slide across the table, heard the boy’s head fall with a muffled thunk onto one of the arms. And still, he didn’t look back. Sam knew his brother was an idiot. He’d always known, on some level, even during those early years when Sam had only existed in the deep throes of his hero-worship for Dean. He knew his brother was cocky and full of smart remarks and while at the age of ten, Sam had thought that those were the reasons his brother was the singular most coolest guy ever, by the age of fifteen Sam had become acutely aware that Dean used these traits with a sort of reckless abandon.It had never been quite as bad as tonight, however.But, still...although he was more than a little furious with his brother, he couldn’t help but feel indignant watching Dad give Dean a dressing down right where Ellen and Ash and God could see.  
“Your dad’s a little scary, man,” Ash drawled quietly as Sam tried hard not to watch the intimate display of fatherly dominance. Ellen elbowed the mullet-sporting genius in the gut to silence him.“He’s more than a little scary,” Sam grunted in return, averting his eyes as his father turned away, leaving Dean at the table to walk back towards the three of them. Dean looked up momentarily and Sam caught his eye. And he would never admit it to Dean, and he definitely would never admit it to Dad, but he felt it.Self-loathing, hot and fast and excruciating like hellfire burning his blood and earthquakes rattling his stomach and vomit clogging his throat. Guilt so palpable Sam wanted to take a knife to his own skin to cut it out. Like a parasite just under the flesh.And then Dean looked away, stretched one arm out onto the table, curled the other towards his chest, and dropped his head with a soft thump onto the outstretched appendage. Like a naughty fourth grader kept inside from recess.And then Sam felt normal again. Well, normal aside from the knot left in his stomach from the interaction. And he was a little woozy. Weird.“So, what’s the case, Ellen?” Dad asked calmly.“Always straight back to business with you, ain’t it, John?” Ellen fondly retorted.Sam didn’t want to hear about any case. He wanted Dean. He wanted a couple of beers, a television, and a motel room. He wanted to put on a crappy old horror movie to make his brother laugh and buy some really disgusting food dripping with meat and condiments so Dean’s face would light up. He wanted to go to a bar and find some hot girls with little self-worth so he could shoo them into the room and give Dean three hours to do whatever the hell they all wanted to do as long as Sam didn’t have to think about it.“Sammy, are you listening?”“Are you feelin’ alright, sweetie? You look pale.”Sam snapped out of it, looked down at the counter. Newspaper clippings and old photos. Movie theater. Disappearances. Right.His brother hadn’t moved. The only indication that the older boy was alive was the steady rise and fall of his back as he breathed.He felt his father’s roughened palm on his forehead and jerked away, batted at the hands that tried to grab him.“Dean’s fine, Sam,” Dad said quietly. “He just needs to think.”  
“He hurts,” Sam whispered, and this time didn’t move as his father felt his skin.“He warm?” Ellen asked.“He’s warm,” John confirmed.Ash had left, Sam realized. Good. He didn’t like Ash seeing them this way.Treated like toddlers and submitting to it.“I want Dean,” Sam insisted just like he had when he was five and ten and seventeen.“Your brother needs about...” Dad checked his watch. “Fifteen more minutes to dwell, kiddo.” And Dad put his cool hand on Sam’s cheek and Sam leaned into it, unused to the man’s blatant affections.“Why fifteen?” Ellen asked.Dad grinned, looking sheepish. “It’s been twelve. He’s twenty-seven year sold.”Sam groaned. “You’re worse than the first time you were alive.” Then immediately countermanded his complaint by burying his face into Dad’s neck. Upon feeling a hand run down his back, he added, “And you’re weird now. Punish us like we’re three. We’re adults and we demand to be treated as such.”“Yeah?” Dad asked, his voice far away.“Yeah,” Sam mumbled. He brought his head up momentarily to find that everything was blurry. Dropped it back onto Dad’s broad shoulder. “How much longer?”“Eight more minutes.” Dad’s voice was on another planet.“Time’s passing too quickly.” Sam’s voice was on another planet.“You’re not feeling well, Sammy boy. You need to be put to bed.”“Mmm,” Sam replied noncommittally. He could feel himself falling asleep, feeling warm and feverish in his father’s arms. There was something in his gut, though, that wasn’t this illness - no, whatever this fever was...it was probably from the night before, walking in the freezing cold to the diner and running back, the wind freezing his lungs. No, Sam knew what the other feeling was, but he wasn’t going to tell Dad of its existence. It was a pull. Towards the table farthest from the bar. He could feel Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam awoke in an unfamiliar room. Not to say that waking up in an unfamiliar room was an unusual circumstance for any of the Winchesters, but this room wasn’t one of the standard motel rooms Sam was used to. A quick shuffling of the eyes informed him of dark wood paneling and plank flooring and a single window half-way covered by a threadbare white bed sheet. Sam shifted. The bed creaked. The twin mattress was old and lumpy and Sam was covered with like ten blankets. Overkill, much? Dean was across the room, about four feet from Sam, sleeping deeply on an identical bed. Sam arched an eyebrow in wonder. His brother almost looked cherubic with his eyes closed and his face nuzzled into the flat pillow - almost. The only thing marring the image was a thin stream of drool dripping from the pink bottom lip to the pillowcase.Sam rolled his eyes. Dean.Then Sam remembered the night before, remembered feeling caught in a tide of disdain and guilt. The knot. The pull. He closed his eyes and tried to feel it again.No go. What had happened after that?Oh, shit. Sam’s face burned with embarrassment as he remembered tucking his face into his father’s neck and whining about needing Dean. In front of Ellen, too. Oh, man. He would never outlive that. He would never be treated as an adult ever again.Ever. Again.Wait. How had he gotten here?Sam gulped and lifted the heavy old blankets that were covering him. And oh. Freaking. God. He was dressed in sweats and a long-sleeved tee that he had no recollection of changing into. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.Sam was horrified.He stared at Dean. Had Dean done this? Or had it been Dad? Oh, please let it be Dean. No, Dad...it would be weird if it were Dean. No, it would be weird if it had been Dad. Let it be Dean. Yeah, Dean.Dean’s eyes popped open. Sam’s eyes widened.“Dude, stop watching me sleep,” his older brother croaked. Dean rolled over onto his stomach, shoved his face in the pillow. “You’re so freakin’ gay.”It probably wasn’t Dean, Sam realized as his brother quickly fell back asleep, emitting soft snores with each exhale.  
Sam laid awake for fifteen more minutes before hearing the muffled sound of quiet footsteps outside. Was there an intruder? Maybe he should get up, get a weapon.But what if it was Dad? Or Ellen? Yeah, it was probably Dad or Ellen. Probably Dad.The doorknob started turning slowly and silently and Sam snapped his eyes shut. If it was Dad, Sam wanted to be asleep. He didn’t want to waste all of his energy explaining that twenty-three meant he was a big boy now and could therefore change himself into his own pajamas. There was, of course, the idle chance that it was an intruder and that he and his brother would be shot to death in their beds... but the former somehow seemed far more detrimental to Sam’s delicate emotional state.Sam felt a gust of air as the door opened. The hinges must have been well-oiled. They didn’t creak at all.And then a big hand was feeling his forehead and calloused fingers were pushing his hair from his face and Sam couldn’t help it anymore. He opened his eyes, peered up at his father’s face in time to catch a glint of a smile on the firm mouth.“Dad?” he asked, trying to make his voice sleep-roughened and croaky, like Dean’s had been.“Hey, kiddo.” Dad’s voice was a quiet rumble in the still room. “How’re you feelin’?”“Okay, I guess.”“You guess?”“I feel fine.”“Good. You don’t feel as warm as you did last night.”Sam straightened himself against the headboard, which was a struggle under all the blankets. “What’s with all these blankets then?” he asked.Dad raised an eyebrow, trailed a hand over the layers of blankets. A look of confusion crossed his face, then realization. As Sam watched curiously, Dad turned towards Dean’s bed where the older hunter fingered the single ratty blue blanket that was covering the older boy. Dean stirred.“Dad?” came the croak that sounded real. In retrospect, Sam’s attempt at imitation had sucked ass.“You cold, buddy?”“M’fine,” came the predictable reply. Then, “Dude, stop touchin’ me.”“Your skin’s cold.”  
Dean’s horizontal body moved in what Sam could only consider a shrug. “Sammy had the chills.”Sam felt a mixed rush of affection and irritation for his brother coarse through his veins. His big brother was an awesome big brother. But Sam wasn’t five. Sam was twenty-three. And it wasn’t Sammy. It was Sam. Why couldn’t anyone ever remember that? And why was Dean never thinking about Dean? Why was Dean always thinking about Sam? This was all Dad’s fault.Sam was just about to say as much when his father asked him, “Can I borrow a few of these, Sammy?” Sam gave a numb nod of consent and watched as his father peeled off a few blankets from Sam’s bed and threw them over Dean.“I said I was fine,” Dean groaned, irritated, weakly batting the blankets away. Dad only responded by roughly tucking them around Dean’s body, swatting in the general vicinity of his older son’s backside when the protestations didn’t stop. Dean yelped. Sam winced in sympathy.“It’s obvious you need a couple more hours,” Dad said, his voice firm. It was an unspoken order, Sam knew. Pretty much every time Dad made an observation or a suggestion, it was an order. He only ever specified with “that’s an order” when there were protests or when the order was in reference to a potentially dangerous situation. Sam hated orders.“Yessir,” Dean mumbled, and Dad put a hand on Dean’s head for a moment before turning back to Sam.“You feel up to getting out of bed, Sam?”“Yessir,” Sam replied, his tone careful and polite for fear of getting swatted like his brother. He’d wait until he was completely awake and healthy to start the inevitable argument about how he and Dean were adults and had been for quite some time. He needed to be strong in mind so he could argue the necessary points, and strong in body so he could run away really fast if he had to. Yes, this was the plan.***The thermometer beeped in Sam’s mouth, but John was quick to snatch it out before his son could grab it. A perfect 98.6. Last night’s fever must have been stressed-induced. The question was stress from what? Sam had been in life-threatening situations plenty of times before and none of them had made him loopy and ill like he’d been the night before.“What is it?” Sam asked, reaching to take the thermometer out of John’s hand. John jerked it away, went to the sink to wash it off. They were in the kitchen behind the bar. Sam was sitting in a hard chair at a messy table.  
“It’s slightly elevated.” John lied smoothly and with practice, a well-educated con in his own right. The microwave behind them began to beep insistently and John popped the door open, brought out a steaming bowl of instant oatmeal, and set it in front of his son. “I want you to eat that oatmeal and head back to bed for a while. Okay, kiddo?”“What’s slightly elevated?” Sam insisted as his father started rummaging through drawers for a spoon.“99.5,” John answered crisply. He grabbed his son’s wrist and stuffed a spoon into the stubborn hand. “Now eat, Sam.”“That’s barely elevated,” Sam argued. “We should go scope out that movie theater when Dean wakes up, get started on the job.”“I already told you what’s going to happen, Sam. Now eat your goddamn breakfast.” John glared at his son. Sam glared right the fuck back.“No, damn it! Dean and I have been doing this without you for a really fucking long time, Dad. Just because he goes around deciding to bring you back from the dead doesn’t mean we want you in charge of when we eat and when we sleep and what we say. We’re grown fucking men! I can do shit even if I have a temperature of 99.5. I’m sure I’ve done it before. I’m sure Dean’s done it before! And yes, Dean’s a smart ass and he says stupid shit a lot of the time in a lot of inappropriate situations, but that’s who he is and that’s what he - what the fuck are you doing?” John wrangled the spoon out of Sam’s hand and dipped it into the oatmeal. He blew on it before stuffing it into Sam’s gaping mouth. Sam was quick to jerk away. He yanked the spoon out, threw it across the room. “You don’t listen to anything-”“You’re going to watch your mouth,” John growled. This kid. This fucking kid. “You’re going to eat your breakfast. And then you’re going right the fuck back to bed. Just like I told you to.”“The fuck I am!”John grabbed the collar of the kid’s T-shirt, pulled him roughly off the chair. The chair clattered to the ground. Sam twisted, kicked his old man in the shin, used a strong arm to knock him into the wall. The fight went on, pots and pans fell, a cacophony of steel rang out. Every time John grabbed Sam, Sam yanked away, pushed John away, something else in the kitchen fell, then John got a hold of Sam again. And the circle never ended. Until...“Aw, fuck me!” They stilled at Dean’s voice. John’s hold on Sam’s arm relaxed, though didn’t release. They turned in unison, slow and guilty-like. Dean was still dressed in what he’d slept in - a long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of black boxers. His arms were crossed, though they shook. John couldn’t tell if it was from cold or anger. “You’re both jackasses,” the older boy snarled, moving forward to lift a frying pan off the ground.   
“Ellen’s kitchen, for chrissakes.” Dean knelt, started clearing up the wreckage. John felt multiple pangs of regret, seeing the dark circles under the boy’s eyes.“Dean?” Sam asked softly.“I don’t want to fucking hear it. You two get wrapped up in all of your petty bullshit and then it’s like nothing and nobody else matters at all. Just shut up and clean up.”Sam began to gently peel away John’s fingers from his arm, every movement like a silent request for permission. John didn’t give it, but after his hand was completely extricated he patted the boy on the shoulder. Man, they were fucked up.“Dean...” the older hunter tried softly and the boy just let out a sound like that of an angry animal. Then he was walking to the pantry closet and yanking out a broom.“Sammy, there’s glass on the floor. Go put something on your feet,” Dean ordered, and Sam obeyed instantly and without a word about Dean’s own bare feet.“Dean-o-”“Shut the fuck up, Dad.”The last time Dean had spoken to him like that, Sam had just left for Stanford. Dean was angry. And when Dean was angry, he was honest. John had been waiting for one of these moments to ask a pressing question. He breathed in. Out. His voice was rough and warm and tinged with nervousness when he asked, “Why did you want me back?”John could tell Dean knew exactly why this question had been asked at this moment. The boy’s eyes stayed on the ground as he swept furiously, a pile of glass and dirt and dust, but the words flew out of his mouth quick and angry, “We were wrecked without you. One week I was demolishing my car with a crowbar, the next I was punching my baby brother in the face. And Sammy wouldn’t stop crying like a little fucking girl and kept expecting me to do the same. It seemed like if you were alive all of that shit would stop.” The kid paused, leaned the broom against a counter, and went to get a dustpan. “The problem was,” he said, setting the blue plastic dustpan on the ground, “in the midst of his girly grieving for you, Sam forgot who you were and what your relationship was like. He started talking about you with this...pride in his voice. Like you were all awesome, like you were how I’ve always described you to be. He became completely obedient to your memory. And fuck, if that didn’t piss me off.”Dean dumped the pile of trash into a garbage can. He walked to the sink, got out a rag, and started tackling the oatmeal on the wall.  
“So,” he continued. “I brought you back. And now we remember the truth. You throw him around. He throws you around. You’re a controlling bastard. He’s a whiny little bitch. Your mouths are perpetually open and moving and your heads are always close and your tempers are always hot...it’s like you’re trying to fucking eat each other, Dad. And that leaves me, the idiot in the middle left to clean your shit up.”John felt like an asshole, but that never stopped him from being more of one. He processed everything his son had said before informing him, “I’m going to the next town over. There’s a decent library there and I have to do some research.”Dean kept wiping the oatmeal off the wall. He asked calmly, “Did you tell him that?”“No. He needs to rest. He’s sick.”Dean looked up and John swallowed at the muddled look of exasperation, disbelief, and fury on his son’s face.“I’m going with you.” Sam. John whirled around. Sam was fully dressed, leaning casually in the threshold of the kitchen.“You’re going to stay here,” Dean said firmly. John hid his surprise.“You’re not Dad, Dean.”Huh. Sam’s obedience to Dean obviously didn’t last too long either.Dean snorted, and looked at his brother incredulously. John looked between his sons with raised eyebrows before trying himself, “You’re going to stay here.”Sam rolled his eyes.“What?” Dean asked, bewildered. “Aren’t you going to say-” and here, Dean did his best impression of Sam’s whiny emo voice, “‘You’re not Dean, Dad.’?”“No. I don’t need permission from either of you,” Sam said, in what John considered to be his youngest son’s snottiest tone. “I. Am. Not. A. Child. I am twenty-three years old and I went without both of you for four freakin’ years and you’re both incredibly bossy assholes and I’m much taller than both-” John cut him off by gingerly taking hold of Sam’s arm. Sam didn’t jerk away, running his eyes over his father, sizing him up. Then calmly asked, “What, Dad?”“Can we go talk in your room for a minute, Sammy?” John asked, tone polite. He moved his hand to his son’s back and gently pushed him in that direction.“Sure, I guess,” Sam replied, sounding confused.  
John nodded, kept his hand on his son’s back while pushing him through the swinging kitchen door, into the tiny hallway, and finally into the claustrophobic room the boys had shared the night before. The door shut with a quiet click behind them.***Dean knew that Sam wasn’t sick. He’d checked his half-asleep kid brother’s temperature three times during the night, stopping at 4:00 a.m.when the thermometer finally read something below 99. Dad was lying and Dean didn’t know why.Dean wondered if it was his fatal flaw always to assume his dad had legitimate reasons for the things he did. God knows he and Sam were both fucked up. And Dad was fucked up. So why was he always sure Dad was thinking rationally?Because the man’s fucking smart, Dean reminded himself. He understands strategy.And strategy was very important in the lives of Winchesters.“Is it safe to come out now?”Dean looked up from where he had been washing the oatmeal bowl in the sink to see Ellen all ready and dressed for the day. He felt briefly self-conscious in his T-shirt and black boxers and nothing else. This was a woman who he didn’t want to sleep with - and she was seeing him in his delicates. Delicates, Dean snorted internally.“I think so,” he said, glancing back in the direction Dad and Sam had gone. “Sorry about your kitchen, Ellen.”She looked around, choked on a laugh. “Why? It looks better than it did before.”Dean smirked. “Yeah? I can be the Tony to your Angela...without the sexual tension you can cut with a knife, of course. No, wait...that wouldn't work. I could be the Tony to your...”Ellen gave him a look, Dean held up his hands in self-defense. “You about to call me Mona?” she demanded. They studied each other a moment before laughing. Dean was surprised she got an 80s sitcom reference. There was hope for Ellen yet. There was even more hope when she asked,“You want some sausage and coffee, sweetie?”“Yes, please.”Dean’s mouth was full of sausage when Ellen told him about Jo taking off.Her mouth was full of toast when he gave his condolences and apologized  
for their last meeting. Both of them were sipping hot coffee when they heard Sam yell for the first time.Dean choked. Ellen pounded on his back.“The fu-?”Ellen smacked the back of his head.“Sorry.” His apology was quick and insincere as he scrambled to his feet and made quick strides for the door, but stopped abruptly when Sam’s yells became coherent.“You’re an overbearing, controlling jackass and I fucking hate you!” came Sam’s muffled shouts. “I’m an adult! A fucking adult and you-!” Sam’s voice stopped abruptly.Dean looked back at Ellen, took a few steps back.“What the hell?” he asked, amazed.She looked just as astonished. “I think your Daddy’s giving Sam the old-fashioned treatment.”They stared in the direction of the room, eyes wide, sharing in a cringe every few moments. Finally, Dean said in a voice full of awe, “Dad’s one crazy sonuvabitch.”They looked quickly away as Dad came through the swinging door, but then turned back. Dean quickly took in the red palm of Dad’s right hand before glaring at the man.“I’m going to the library in the next town over,” Dad announced for the second time that morning. His eyes settled on Dean’s eyes and he added, “I’m a jackass, Dean.”Don’t look surprised, Dean told himself. You know this. You know he knows this.Dean didn’t look surprised, though he was feeling it in great waves. “Yessir,” he said.“I’m sorry,” Dad added.Okay, now Dean looked surprised. “You...you are?”“I am.”He couldn’t believe this. This was surreal. Dean put a hand behind his back as if to scratch, but pinched himself instead. Yep, that hurt...then, with utter horror, Dean realized where this might be going. “You’re not...are you going to leave us?”“That what you want?” Dad asked quietly.  
“Nosir.”“Then I’m not.”Then, to Dean’s amazement and humiliation, Dad leaned forward and kissed his temple. In front of Ellen. He felt heat creeping up his cheeks.“Sammy and I...we’re going to try this time. I want to do right by you.”“You’ll stop lying to me then? And Sammy? He’s not sick anymore.”Dad sighed, ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired, Dean realized. “I was just trying to prevent the inevitable argument. Sometimes your old man is dead wrong.Dean nodded. Then asked again, “You’ll stop lying to us?”“I’ll stop directly lying to you.”“So lies by omission. Those work both ways? We can deceive you and you can deceive us?”“No,” John said flatly. “They don’t work both ways. I’m not going to tell you everything but I’m not going to deceive you by any means. You, however, are going to tell me everything.”“That’s not-”“Since when are you your brother? You know I’m not fair, kid.”Dean smirked. It was true. And sometimes, though ridiculously irritating, the truth was a little funny.“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Dad said, giving Dean one last affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. “Ellen, if you need Sam’s help, he’ll be up to it in about an hour. He’s taking a nap.”Dean realized that he’d forgotten Ellen was there. The woman snorted. “Sure, Winchester,” she said, punching the older hunter lightly in the arm.It felt like forever, but the two of them finally left and Dean strode quickly and quietly to the room he and Sam had been sharing since the previous night. His gigantic little brother was face-down on the lumpy twin bed farthest from the door, shoulders shaking silently, big feet sticking over the end of mattress.“Sammy?” Dean asked.Sam sniffled. Sniffled.“Sammy, you gonna be alright?” Dean laid a tentative hand on his brother’s shoulder only to have it shrugged off.“Dad beat me.” It was half-sobbed and very muffled and Dean had to lean forward to hear it.  
“I don’t think that’s what happened,” Dean said carefully.“That’s what we’re going to tell people.”“We’re not tellin’ anyone anything.”“Good.”Dean waited a moment, put an awkward hand through his brother’s shaggy hair.“Hey, Sammy?”“Yeah?”“You want me to call Child Protective Services now?”Sam looked up from his now-wet pillow, regarded Dean with red-rimmed doe eyes, tears streaming down sharp cheeks.Dean waggled his eyebrows at his little brother, cocked his head, grinned smugly. He didn’t even see the pillow before it hit him in the face.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean poked his waffles with his fork. Mmm. Waffles. Delicious little crevices filled with sweet, sweet syrup. If only his geek brother hadn’t stolen his knife.“Dude, give me back my knife.” Dean made a grab for Sam’s knife-wielding hand. Sam avoided the grab with a deft nonchalance, moving his arm with a grace that couldn’t be called a jerk.“Ask the waitress for another,” the kid smirked smugly. “Your knife is now my knife.” And with that, Sam cut delicately into own waffles before stuffing the delicious breakfast into his mouth.Dean glared, looked for the waitress, who was old and pleasant and plump. Also, he now noted, blissfully unaware. She was chatting up other customers and didn’t seem to be moving back to the Winchester table anytime soon. He tried to cut into the waffles with the side of his fork, but the movement was sloppy and slow and took the fun out of his feast.He sighed, finally looked imploring to Dad, who was sitting opposite from Dean and Sam in the red diner booth. Dad had been ignoring both of them, sipping coffee, eyes running intently over the case folder Ellen had prepared for them days ago.“Dad, Sam stole my knife.”Dad’s eyes lifted, settled on Dean. A pair of dark eyebrows raised slightly up in surprise.That’s right, Dean thought. I went there.Sam would’ve gone there, Dean knew. Sam would’ve gone there an hour before the knife thievery had even occurred.“What happened to Sam’s knife?” Dad asked.“He dropped it on the floor.”Sam huffed. “I did not. It slipped.”Dean snorted. “Yeah, Sammy. It slipped. Out of your hand. You’re turning back into the same spastic freak you were when you were fourteen.”“Don’t call your brother names.”“He stole my-”“Ask the waitress for another.”She’s busy, Dean wanted to argue. But he didn’t have the balls. Dad had been acting like a bear stirred out of hibernation since returning to the Roadhouse the day before. Dean hadn’t asked about it. Sam had tried, had opened his mouth, had that bratty look of accusation ready and waiting on his face, but Dean had elbowed him in the ribs and slapped a   
hand over the mouth before a sound could come out. And Sam had glared, but relented.Dad hadn’t found what he was looking for. That much was certain. And whoever he had talked to on the phone later that night - just quietly enough and just far enough out of the way that Sam and Dean could hear his voice, but not discern his words - either hadn’t been much use or told Dad something he hadn’t wanted to hear. Dean was able to assume this from the way Dad had tromped grumpily into the bar a few hours later to grumble something to Ellen which had her patting him consolingly on the arm. He was able to assume his assumptions accurate when Dad hadn’t allowed Dean or Sam to finish their beers, had sent them both to bed and upon the inevitable protests, had threatened them both with “what Sammy got earlier.”“Darlin’, could my boy here get another knife?” John’s voice brought Dean out of his thoughts.“Sure thing, hon.” She smiled indulgently at Dad, eyed Dean like he was an attention-deficit 5-year-old before walking away.Dean glared. “I could’ve asked her.”“You could’ve,” Dad conceded gruffly. “If you’d been paying attention to where she was.”Seven minutes later both Dean and Sam were done with their waffles, Sam sipping his coffee and looking over the papers and clippings Dad was done with while Dean sat, slumped and satisfied on the plastic seat, hands massaging his belly.“Those waffles were magnificent,” he swooned.“How does Ellen even know this is our thing? There could just be some freak pedophile serial kidnapper taking these kids,” Sam said to Dad. “And the ghost rumor could just be some superstitious town myth to make up for the dirty laundry.”“Could be,” Dad said. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t check it out, does it?”“You should have had the strawberry syrup, Sammy. It was like eating God on a stack of heavenly starch clouds.”“Nosir,” Sam said amiably. “I’m just saying if we don’t find anything, we shouldn’t search for something that might not be there to begin with. There are more important things to deal with.”“A teen aged boy has gone missing every year on October 23rd-”“Better than your maple syrup I bet. Not that maple syrup isn’t delicious...”  
“-for the past 10 years and you think that’s not important?”“...but it’s so boring. I mean, obviously it’s not red or strawberry-flavored...”“I didn’t say it wasn’t important,” Sam said, in a tone that was almost even, “I said that we could be doing more important things. There’s a difference.”“Like what?”“You could’ve had blueberry syrup or boysenberry syrup...”“What do you mean ‘like what’? Like finding the demon, Dad!”“You can watch that tone, little boy-”“Boysenberry, Sammy.”“-and we will find the demon, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to ignore everything and everyone else along the way.”“Since when do you think like that?” Sam demanded.“I mean what the hell is a boysen, anyway?”Silence found the Winchester table and Dean found Dad and Sam staring at him with standard “what-the-fuck” expressions that had Dean wide-eyed and defensive.“What?” he asked, throwing two hands of surrender into the air.Sam rolled his eyes and punched his brother in the arm, “A boysenberry is a cross between a raspberry and a Pacific blackberry. It was invented by Rudolph Boysen, which is why it’s called a boysenberry.”Now the incredulous stares were turned to Sam.“What? I’m smart. We know this.”“You’re a geek with a weirdo encyclopedia for a head,” Dean retorted. Then to Dad, “Sam hit me.”Dad leveled Dean with a considering look. “Dean-o...”“Yeah?”“What is this case about?”“Oh, er, um...” Dean looked to Sam.“Dude!” Sam said in his what-the-hell voice, waving two irritated hands in the air.  
Dad took the papers and clippings from in front of Sam and stuffed them back into the folder. He shoved the folder in front of Dean. Dean looked at the folder with wary green eyes before looking back at Dad.“You have five minutes before I quiz you. You better get started,” Dad said. He didn’t sound threatening or angry.What? Quiz... Dean looked back down at the folder, prodded the exterior with a finger, didn’t open it. He looked back up at Dad hopefully.“Can’t you two just fill me in?”“Do we need to go have a conversation in the restroom?” This question had been asked often throughout Dean’s childhood. It only ever meant one thing - and it never had anything to do with urinating or talking.Oh, shit. Don’t let him know he’s scared you...Dean cocked his head to the side, considered his father. “Are you the Fonz? Is the restroom your office?” he asked. A glance out of the side of his eye told him that Sam’s mouth was gaping. Sammy Fish Face. New nickname. Sweet.“Didn’t we have a talk about your smart mouth and potentially dangerous situations?” Dad returned.“Yessir.” Dean looked to Sam, whose mouth was still opening and closing in awe at his brother’s inherent recklessness. Sam’s mouth opened. Dean used a finger to push it closed. Sam batted at Dean’s hand. “Sammy Fish Face,” Dean tested the name out.“Dean...” Dad warned. “Four minutes.”“He has like one and half minutes!” Sam protested. Dean glared. The little bitch wanted to get him in trouble.“I’m feeling generous,” Dad said smoothly, holding up his coffee mug for the passing waitress to refill. Sam did the same. They looked at each other appraisingly over their mugs. Dean opened the folder with a defeated sigh._____________________________“Toby went to meet a friend at the movie theater.” Judith Tolliver’s face was lined and tired, her voice a single note. The story droned on like a bad song, non-stimulating and overplayed. “He left around 7:30 and never came home.”“Do you remember what Toby went to see, Mrs. Tolliver?” Dean asked.Judith looked surprised at the question. Sam wanted to elbow his brother but wasn’t sure if he could make the gesture subtle.“Um...” the woman looked embarrassed. “Orgazmo. It was opening night.He was really excited.”  
Dean looked at Sam and grinned. Sam waited for Judith to look at her hands before elbowing his brother in the ribs.“Do you remember the showing time?” Sam asked gently.“8:10,” Judith said. “He’d gone out after school the day before to get tickets. He was really very excited.”‘Big South Park fan?” Dean guessed.“Huge.” Judith smiled fondly at the memory.Sam looked at Dean, who looked just as nostalgic as this mother remembering her dead child and had to stifle his sigh.A few minutes later they walked out of the house and down the street, toward the park. The weather was unseasonably warm, but pleasant with brief gusts of cool wind coming their way. The town was small, and the movie-goers all came from the same two suburban communities. Sam and Dean had just finished interviewing their fifth and final household and Dad had taken the Impala to the other set of houses to finish off the other four. Only one family had moved since their tragedy.“Sammy, remember when I took you to see Orgazmo?” Dean asked. “I was the best big brother ever.”“I remember wanting to do my chemistry homework.”“I bet you were the only fifteen-year-old who got to see it. That shit was rated NC-17.”“I remember the NC-17 parts,” Sam agreed. “And I remember while watching them I wanted to be doing my chemistry homework.”“Geek.”“So we’ve got five women, two divorced - one since the disappearance of her son, the other before. All of the kids went to the movies around 8. There doesn’t seem to be any connection through movie genre. Three of them were going out with a friend, one was going on a date, and the other was going alone.”“So we have the 8 o’clock connection.”“That’s not enough. These kids had to have something else in common.”The merry sound of an ice cream truck came tinkling into Sam’s ears. Sam groaned.“Dude...in October?” Dean asked, unable to quell the longing in his voice. “C’mon, Sammy. I’ll buy you a snow cone. Or one of those Snoopy ice cream popsicle stick thingies...  
Five minutes later saw twenty-three-year-old Sam Winchester licking Snoopy-shaped ice cream from a popsicle stick and twenty-seven-year-old Dean Winchester suckling on a snow cone. This is how they walked down the sidewalk. In other words, they looked ridiculous.“Man, do you ever wonder why Dad treats us like children?” Sam groused,licking the melted ice cream off his hand. “Because I don’t. There’s no need to wonder. You’re a gigantic five-year-old.”“Dude, snow cone,” Dean replied. “And I’m not the one who got spanked.”“Dude.”Sam sort of wanted to take what was left of Snoopy and shove him in Dean’s face. That shit was just out of line. Sam hadn’t asked for Dad back- he’d missed him, yeah. He’d prayed for Dad every night. He’d cried for him. He’d even wanted him back, but he’d never asked for him back. That was all Dean’s doing. And the - oh God help him - spanking was all Dean’s fault, too. Dad hadn’t completely lost his shit until Sam had spoken a few choice words about Dean. He didn’t remember much after that - just a hard hand pounding his ass into oblivion and low-pitched snarls of, “You will respect your brother.”“Sorry,” Dean said now. “But you have to admit...it was funny.”“It wasn’t funny.”“It was a little fun-”“It’s wasn’t funny at all, Dean!” Sam snapped, hitting his brother with a little more heat than usual in the arm. “When it happens to you, you’ll see how not-funny it is.”Dean laughed. “It’s not going to happen to me, Sam. I’m way older than you.”Sam didn’t bother to point out that it had been less than three hours since Dad last threatened Dean. He didn’t point out the multiple swats Dean had received since bringing Dad back from the dead. He didn’t even point out the four years older wasn’t way older, just a little older. He just walked the rest of the way to the park in steaming silence, his footfalls a little heavier than before._______________________________“One of them were lying,” John said upon the boys’ report. He covered his mouth with a hand to stifle a yawn.“The one that was going alone. Probably meeting a friend. A single friend. Like the rest of them.”  
“And the three dates?” Sam asked as Dean chuffed down the the rest of the crushed ice from his snow cone. Then guessed, “The single friend is always a girl?”“Always the same girl,” John agreed.“Unless they all played for the same team,” Dean offered. John and Sam looked at him. Dean grinned, said in a spooky voice, “The Tale of the Gay Ghost,” and wiggled his fingers.Sam looked to John, shrugged with his eyebrows. “It’s possible. It could be a girl or a guy. I mean...why would a kid lie about meeting a friend? And why would so many of them just say they were meeting one friend while three of them said it was a date? Wouldn’t they let on that it was a girl to their parents? Why would they be ashamed or shy? I mean...one kid told his mom he was going to see Orgazmo. Wouldn’t he tell her he was going to see Orgazmo with a girl?”John nodded thoughtfully. “We won’t rule the possibility out.”“I was joking,” Dean interjected.“It wasn’t funny,” Sam informed him. “Dad, have we done enough for the day?”John gave his youngest a surprised look. “You feelin’ all right?” The kid had been attentive and eager all day, had in fact been incredibly mature and easy to get along with since the previous day’s conversation, so the abrupt question had him mildly concerned.“I’m little tired,” Sam said, even though he didn’t look tired. “Could we go get checked into a motel or something?”John nodded, feeling a little tired himself. He hadn’t been sleeping all that well since...well, since he came back. He ran a hand over his face only to catch the tail-end of Sam’s worried look when he reopened his eyes. Ah. Kid was back to his old tricks.“I want a sandwich,” Dean said, tossing the empty paper cone into a nearby trash can. “D’you want a sandwich, Dad? Me and Sammy want sandwiches.”What was this? Some sort of intervention?“You didn’t have waffles this morning,” Dean pointed out. “And they were delicious. You could’ve had boysenberry syrup courtesy of Ralph Boysen.”“Rudolph,” Sam corrected.“Whatever.”The boys looked at him imploringly and John was surprised that he couldn’t say no to those two grown faces.  
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Sandwich and motel. Get the hell in the car.”John jerked awake in a motel room three hours later with his 6’4” son curled into his side. Sandwich wrappers littered the motel table and Dean was sprawled across the other full size bed in an awkward and somewhat hilarious position. Sam’s breathing was quiet, Dean snored softly.He had been wondering if they would notice - how he was always up before they were up, how they were always asleep before he was asleep. How they were always eating and he was always watching them eat.Since when do you think like that?He could thank Dean for not having to answer that question. Why the demon didn’t matter as much as it used to, why he just wished he could avoid it all forever.John placed a soft hand on Sam’s tousled head. Hell was really fucking bad and John knew sooner or later he was going back, knew his oldest had signed himself up to do the same in ten years. And the thoughts - the pit, the screaming, the pain, the torture, the rape, the twisting, the skinning, the shearing, the extracting, the inserting, the tearing, the ripping, the maiming...where everything was red and orange and blood and fire. All John wanted to do was hole up in this motel room forever with his boys, where it was safe and warm and familiar.And, yes, he was terse with them. Yes, he was treating them like they were six. Yes, he spanked his twenty-three-year-old son and threatened his twenty-seven-year-old with the same. And yes, it was more than a little fucked up. But John’s fuse was short and his love was large and he wasn’t letting his boys go again. He wasn’t leaving them again.“You need to talk to Sam,” Missouri had advised, her voice far away over the phone. “Sudden fevers like that...it was probably his powers sparking.You need to ask him what he was feeling when it came on.”“You did what to Dean?” Bobby had growled. “That boy has enough issues with his own self-worth without assholes like you going around demeaning him in front of every goddamned person there to witness it.”“He needs to learn to-”“Think! I damn well know it, Winchester...but ah, Hell. Find a gentler way to do it next time, okay? In private. And I can damn well tell you now Sam was feeling Dean. Boy’s gonna have a supernatural pull on him for the next ten years. You got two pups both connected to Hell, Johnny, and they’re gonna be feelin’ that. Jus’ like their Daddy, I guess.”John closed his eyes now, swallowed. His fingers trembled slightly as he ran them through Sam’s hair. Sam moved, lifted his head onto his father’s chest and sighed in his sleep. Like he had when he was three and six and twelve. Warmth spread through John and his tears were hot   
behind his eyes and he willed them away. But it was so pretty here with his boys in this dingy fucking room. He never wanted to leave. He wanted time to stop here when his boys were sleeping and content and not in Hell.It wasn’t pretty in Hell.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam desperately wanted to tell these people that they were wasting their time. Capote had come out just last year and was far superior to this Infamous crap.“Young man, would you please turn off your cell phone?” an exasperated middle-aged professor-type requested.Granted, Sam wasn’t a movie elitist. He didn’t even really like movies - that was Dean’s thing. But he really wanted these people to know that he wasn’t out to ruin their movie-going experience, that he hadn’t come herewith the premeditated idea of devastating their mediocre biopic.“Dude, turn off your cell phone!” a guy about Sam’s age hissed, the lenses of his thick-framed glasses reflecting the movie screen.He also really wanted to tell these assholes that this thing in his hand clearly wasn’t a cell phone. He wanted to tell them that he hadn’t picked an annoying static sound as his ring tone, that nobody would do that, especially not a veritable genius with a Stanford education like Sam. This clunky piece of shit in his hand used to be a walk man, for God’s sake.“It’s an electromagnetic field meter,” Sam grumbled, walking back up the aisle, to the back of the theater. All the cool kids hung out in the back of the theater.He was envious of Dean, who was in the only other 8:00 showing at the small movie theater - The Grudge 2, which was undoubtedly harboring a copious amount of loud adolescents, probably including the adolescent they were searching for. Sam would bet the ten bucks in his wallet that nobody could hear Dean’s EMF meter. And if they could, they were probably looking at Dean, taking in the leather jacket and cool smartass nonchalance and asking him, “Hey, what’s that you’ve got? That’s cool. Come watch this horrible movie with us!”Sam might have been favored among adults for being a nice boy with kind eyes, but Dean was definitely a hit where the kids were concerned.He reached the back of the theater. A mother-sort with graying roots sitting at the end of the second to last row grabbed his arm, shook it a bit. Sam tried to jerk back, but she wouldn’t let go.“Turn that contraption off, young ma-”In the struggle, the meter was jerked up and to the right. Two red lights came on and the whirring sound was faint, but there.The woman let go of his arm, stared at the thing in Sam’s hand. Sam’s eyes widened.“I’m sorry,” he apologized, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “But I need to come through here.” And he bounded down the row, his long legs  
tripping over the legs of other people, who were yelling and jeering and saying very nasty things about Sam as a person.And then the EMF was almost full and Sam leaned over two incredibly angry individuals to get a look at the back, where a girl with a ponytail and outdated glasses sat seemingly stiffly in a yellow cardigan next to a boy who was squirming in his seat, apparent pleasure on his face, his teeth biting his tongue down and his eyes closed.Oh, shit.That nerdy girl was totally giving that boy a hand job.Sam flushed with embarrassment at witnessing this, and again when the girl glared at him, mouthing the words “go away.” But Sam didn’t go away. He thrust the EMF meter towards them and it went crazy.The boy’s eyes popped open, the girl stopped her hand.“What the hell, man?” the kid demanded, his voice coming out as a high-pitched squeak.But Sam was looking at the girl, whose face was now ugly, distorted. Gray, dead. The boy looked where Sam was looking. And he screamed.There was an uproar, people turning around, getting out of their seats, yelling. The girl got to her feet, leaned over the seat to leer at Sam - but she just vanished, hitting him like wind. There was no indication that anybody else had seen that, except for the kid, who just sat there, pale and confused.___________________________“Dad!”John faintly heard his son’s call as he attempted to dodge the stampede of people rushing out of Infamous, demanding their money back, rambling almost hysterically about a tall boy who wouldn’t turn his cell phone off, and wasn’t this just the worst movie experience ever?“Dad!”And there was Sam, towering over everybody else, a shorter kid in hand. John pushed his way to his son before fingers could start pointing, ordered the kid to lay low by the car in the parking lot, briefly reassured the piss-scared looking teenager that everything was fine, they were going to figure it out, and went into The Grudge 2 to retrieve Dean.There were teenagers everywhere and it took a few minutes to locate his handsome son in the very back row, sharing a tub of popcorn with a group of starry-eyed kids.  
“Dude, this movie sucks out loud,” Dean was saying a bit too loudly through a mouth of popcorn.“It’s worse than the first one,” a tiny dark-haired boy agreed, nodding his head eagerly.“It’s totally bad,” a blonde girl sighed, her eyes locked on Dean, begging for affirmation.“Dean,” John hissed.Dean’s head snapped around, popcorn flew out of his mouth. Two of the boys snickered and the girls giggled coyly.“Dad?”“That’s your dad?”“Dean, outside. Now.”John waited to see that his son was moving to obey before leaving the theater himself. He waited outside the doors, grabbed Dean’s arm the moment the boy came rushing out.“Dad, didja have to embarrass me in front of all my cool new high school friends?” the kid asked with a grin, stumbling as his father bodily steered him to the side theater exit.“While you were watching that sad excuse for a horror movie, your brother found the subject of our hunt and the potential victim,” John growled. “Which is what you should have been looking for.” He let go of Dean’s arm just to give him a hard swat on the behind to keep him moving forward.“Ow.” Dean glared at his father, good humor vanquished for the moment.“I looked. It’s not my fault it was in Sam’s theater.”“You should have gone to Sam’s theater or reported back to me when you were done surveying your area. It’s been over a decade since you started hunting, son. You know how this works.”They pushed through the glass doors and made their way through the parking lot. The Impala was in the back of the lot and Sam was standing next to it, looking so damn tall next to the scared adolescent next to him.“What took you so long?” Sam asked.“Your face took me so long,” Dean muttered. Then, “Gross. I didn’t mean that.”John gritted his teeth and suppressed the urge to swat his son again. Not in front of this other kid, he told himself.  
Sam, for his part, just gave a long-suffering sigh, and said, “This is Freddie. I’ve filled him in as much as I can.” John and Dean nodded, looked at him to continue. Sam gave them as much as he could. “It was a spirit. I was waiting for you guys before getting the whole story.”“So, Eddie-” Dean started.“Freddie,” Freddie corrected.“Freddie,” Dean conceded. “Can you tell us where you met this girl...er...guy?” Sam shook his head frantically no. “Girl, then.”Freddie looked appropriately confused. “I met her in the park.”“In the park...?” John prompted. Thinking of the park where he’d picked up the boys a few days ago, he specified, “Sunny Ridge Park?”Freddie nodded. “I go there sometimes at night to get away from my parents. Then she started coming at night, too. We started talking about things. You know, what assholes people are, stuff like that. And then she asked me to take her to the movies tonight. So I did. And now I find out she’s a...ghost? I mean, what the fuck, man?”“Like I said, it happens,” Sam said. John noted that his son looked tired, repeating what he’d obviously painstakingly explained in the minutes John had been fishing Dean out of the theater.“Don’t go to that park at night anymore,” John told him.“Oh, I won’t.” Freddie shuddered. “That was freaking terrifying.”“What was her name?” Dean asked.“Brynn,” the kid replied.“No last name?”“She didn’t tell me her last name.” Freddie looked between them all, finally focusing on John. “Can I go now?”John advised the kid to salt his doors and windows, trying not to look or sound annoyed at the bewildered expression he was getting in return. After being reassured that Freddie would drive straight home and stay there for the rest of the night, John told him he could leave, but they all stood and watched the kid walk to and drive off in his car, anyway.“You don’t think she’ll go after him again, do you?” Sam asked.“No, I don’t,” John said.“He didn’t tell everything,” his youngest boy said, and John could see the red creeping up Sam’s cheeks in the dimly-lit parking lot. “In the theater...when I found them...” Sam paused, fidgeting, obviously searching for the easiest way to say it in front of his father.  
“Spit it out, Sasquatch,” Dean snapped, earning himself another grievous swat from his already irritated father. “Christ, Dad-”“If I have to give you another you’re getting a spanking when we get back to the motel.” He didn’t miss Dean’s own blush before turning back to Sam. “What was happening when you found them, kiddo?”“Hand job,” Sam practically squeaked, much to Dean’s amusement.“Dude. When I Was A Teenage Ghost Whore.”Sam and John stared blankly as Dean continued to look satisfied at his own joke. Once realizing he was alone, Dean raised his eyebrows. “Hole? 1991? First track of the so-not-epic album Pretty On The Inside?”“Dude. Courtney Love?”“I said so-not-epic!”“You can never redeem yourself,” Sam taunted, pointing a finger at Dean.“Irredeemable, man. And you knew what track it was-” He was cut off by the sound of a throat clearing and both boys stilled, stared at their father.“Both of you get in the goddamn car,” John sighed. Dean scrambled to obey, dashing to the front seat.“Hey! You didn’t-”“Samuel, if I hear one word about shotgun...” John let the threat linger, watching his youngest fold his long limbs into the back seat.The Winchesters drove off in silence._______________________________Her name was Brynn Young, according to Sammy who was reading this shit off his laptop. The last time her parents had seen her she was going off on a date with some football bigshot named Dave Patterson - to see the classic 1995 film Mallrats (much to Dean’s delight). Apparently, though, Brynn wasn’t the football player-dating type.“She had on a yellow cardigan and bad glasses,” Sam said. “And she had a ponytail.”“Oh no. Glasses and a ponytail. And a football player. It’s like She’s All That come to life.”“Shut up, Dean.”According to the article, Dave took her to the movie, but the couple was kicked out halfway through due to an obscene public display of affection.“That would be the hand job,” Dean interjected. “Hand job, Sammy. The whack. The wank. The jerk. The jack.”  
“Dad!”It was later speculated that this instance of PDA was young Brynn’s first sexual encounter and that Patterson had actually pressured her into it. Noone knew for sure, of course, because no one had the chance to ask her. She was dead by the next morning.“Hanging from a tree in Sunny Ridge park,” Sam said.“She kill herself? Why would she do that?” Dean asked.“It was a prank...” Sam said quietly, his eyes wide as he stared at the computer screen.Patterson took her to the park where a group of football players and cheerleaders were waiting (“How cliche,” Dean scoffed), the girls knocked her down and cut off her ponytail with a pair of kitchen scissors (Dean opened his mouth to comment again but Dad sat down next to him and glared), they ripped her glasses from her face and crushed them under their shoes, pointed and laughed for a few minutes before a cop came and ordered them to disperse.“They really just stood there and pointed and laughed for a few minutes?”Dean was unable to control himself. “It really says that? That’s a real article?” Dean, who had been laying on his stomach on one of the beds while his brother read, quickly rolled to the floor to avoid Dad’s smack. “C’mon, Dad. You know it’s absurd.”“The article’s a little absurd,” Dad admitted, but his face hardened when he added,“But that doesn’t make it any less sad.” He looked to Sam. “Does it say where’s she’s buried, Sammy?”“Sunny Ridge Cemetery.”“Christ. Everything’s freakin’ Sunny Ridge with this place,” Dean muttered. “Nothin’ sunny about it.” Then, after a thought, amended, “Except for the waffles. And the boysenberry syrup.”“You’ve never had the boysenberry syrup,” Sam pointed out.“Not yet, Sammy. Tomorrow’s the day.”With that, the three Winchesters stood and cracked their tired joints. Then Sam grabbed his jacket and was out the door in a flash. It took a moment for this sudden action to resonate in Dean’s mind.“Dad-!” He was cut off by his own jacket hitting him in the head.“Put your jacket on, Dean,” Dad said wearily.“But he-”  
“Put your jacket on, Dean,” Dad snapped and watched as Dean quickly pulled his jacket on. “I swear, you two and the damn front seat. You’d think you were twelve.”“Well, that’s twice as old as you treat us,” Dean muttered. He cleverly sidestepped the oncoming swat only for Dad to pull him in and administer three to the seat of his jeans. He didn’t make a sound this time, but damn they hurt. They hurt far more than any of the others Dad had given him in the past week. And if Dean were smart, he would’ve just shut his cake-hole then, but Dean wasn’t smart. Dean was Dean. So he said, “And my point is proven.”Shit, what the hell was he thinking? He started for the door, but Dad grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him back.“That it is,” Dad agreed. “You want it now or when we get back?”Dad couldn’t be serious. “Dad...please....”“Decide, Dean.”“I’m 27!”“You have five seconds to decide.”“You can’t punish me for irritating you!”And that...that seemed to take the wind out of Dad’s sails. Dad looked deflated and much to Dean’s amazement, hurt.“Dad?”“When we get back, then. Your brother’s waiting in the car.”Dean opened his mouth to...to what, exactly? Protest? Say no? No, he wanted it now, not later. Or no. Say no, never. You can’t. No, Dean thought, that’s absurd. His dad was already out the door when Dean realized that the word “no” had died years ago on his lips, had died when his lips were still child’s lips, had died with his mother and his father’s acceptance to hear “no” from his oldest son. And as Dean dragged his feet out of the room and through the parking lot, he realized he didn’t want to say no. He didn’t deserve to say no. Dad had looked hurt and Dean had put that look there, practically taken finger paints and spread them into a painful portrait on his father’s face with his twenty-seven-year-old hands. Hands that were old enough to know better.________________________________Dad and Dean didn’t talk on the way to the cemetery. Sam had made the mistake of asking what had taken them so long, only to have Dad shoot him one of those infamous I’m-tearing-your-vocal-chords-out-of-your-body-right-now looks. And Sam had fallen dutifully silent.  
It was tense as they dug, their shovels making quick angry work of the grave. Sam and Dean had done this plenty on their own, usually passing the time by exchanging good-natured ribbings; or Sam would be quiet and Dean would sing one of the overplayed songs from his favorite five albums. And then Sam would “accidentally” throw the dirt from his shovelin Dean’s general direction and Dean would wave his own shovel threateningly at Sam and they would laugh and go back to what they were doing.But Dad’s posture was stiff and foreboding and Sam was pretty sure that none of their usual nonsense would go over well tonight. And even if Sam wanted to (which, really, he kind of did - he kind of wanted Dean to start singing), he knew Dean wouldn’t. Dean was brooding, his shoulders hunkering down more than necessary, his green eyes stormy in the moonlight.Sam knew kind of what this was about, of course - Dean’s head hadn’t been in this hunt from the beginning, and there was nothing Dad hated more than going on a hunt without everyone involved being acutely aware of everything that was going on. Of course, Dean being unconcerned with a hunt while they were hunting was worrisome in itself - Dean liked hunting. Dean was always prepared, going in with his weapons clean and his head on the job, Daddy’s perfect boy and good little soldier.Sam had just thought it was the excitement of having Dad back. Maybe all the emotional turmoil they had been going through this week was fucking with Dean’s psyche, maybe Dean just needed time to get used to having Dad around again.But Dad was acting weird for Dad. This whole deal where he treated them like children was different than before. Before it was just Dad barking orders at them, expecting them to do exactly as they were told without question. Dean had pretty much become an adult by four. Sam remembered being six and Dean being nine and Dean telling him when to brush his teeth and go to bed. Dad had never been that guy.But he was that guy now. He was always touching them and keeping them close and watching them as they did things. Like he couldn’t believe they were real. Like they were as new and precious as infants. He was affectionate without preempt, a state that Dad had only ever previously been in when the Winchesters had endured an incredible scare.And this was how Sam knew Hell had fucked with Dad in a bad way. This was how Sam knew, that even though Dad was stoic and stern always in face, inside he was rattled and haunted and sad.And this was why Sam would fight with Dad. This is why Sam would snap the words, “I hate you” with a child’s innocent disregard. He’d done it before, when Dad had been disciplining him in that bad way that Sam didn’t want to think about - and Dad had said, “I’m sorry to hear that,   
Sammy,” and his rough voice had sounded like a sound that was trying really hard not to sound strangled. And this was why, when Sam said those words (and he undoubtedly would again) he would never mean them. Dad had hugged him afterwards and Sam had pushed him away and laid down on his bed and stuffed his tear-streaked face into his pillow.And a hesitant kiss had been placed on the back of Sam’s head before heavy footsteps left the room. This is why Sam would allow Dad, after a significant amount of kicking and screaming and swearing, to do these things.This is why Sam would never leave Dad.______________________________“Go take a shower, Sam. Make it long.”His youngest obeyed without protest and moments later, John heard the shower running hot and loud. Dean hovered next to the door, closing it softly behind him. John watched the boy take off his jacket, watched him throw the dirty garment onto his duffle, before turning slowly and eyeing John with tired eyes.“I’m sorry,” Dean said quietly.John sat down on the edge of the bed.“For what?”“I’m irritating.”John gritted his teeth, breathed. He knew his son, behind all the cockinessand charm, thought this of himself, that all the boyish bravado was just a mask for some deep-seated insecurity about not being worth the trouble. The proclamation hurt John for two reasons - one, was the fact that Dean thought this of himself; and two, was that Dean thought that John would punish him merely for being Dean.“You’re not irritating.”Dean took a few steps toward his father and once he was close enough, John hooked his fingers in the kid’s belt loops, pulled his son to stand between his legs.“Why then?” Dean asked. He sounded nervous and young, just as he had when he was six years old and in this same position.“There’s two reasons. Can you try to tell me what they are?”Dean was quiet for a long time, his eyes looking anywhere except for John as he thought over his recent misdeeds.John knew why it was hard for him - other than the one glaring mistake of the hunt, the kid hadn’t been that bad. Throughout Dean’s childhood   
and adolescence this standing-between-the-legs, Daddy’s-got-you-by-the-belt-loops procedure had been reserved for far more heinous crimes, incidents in which Dean had knowingly put himself in direct danger despite orders. These incidents had been rare and spanned years apart. And the only reason they were in this position now was because John inherently knew that Dean needed it; needed to know that if he pushed far enough or fucked up, John would take care of it - and John would.“I got lazy on the hunt,” the kid finally said, his voice aching with disdain, and John wanted nothing more than to hug his boy.“You did,” he said instead. “You got lazy on the hunt. This once. You want to tell me why?”Dean opened his mouth, faltered. John watched him bite his lip as he thought. Watched his mouth open, and then close again.“Are you afraid to tell me?” John asked, knowing that his son had an aversion to anything that indicated he might feel fear.“It didn’t seem important for some reason.”“No?”“No. I know. It’s always important.”“It is,” John agreed. “We’re lucky this one was easy. You wanna tell me the second reason?”“I’m irritating.”“No. You’re not irritating. You were being irritating. And then you kept being irritating after I warned you. So you know what this is about?” Dean just stared at him, shifted his eyes from side to side, then gave him half a sheepish smile and an eyebrow shrug. It took a lot of effort for John’s expression to remain stern. “Your mouth, mister.”“Aw, Dad, again with the-”“Dean.” And the kid had the good sense to shut up. For once. “You’re a smartass.”“Yessir.”“And that’s just fine.”“It is?” Dean looked surprised.“Yes. It is. But you need to learn to moderate it. Like say...when a man has a gun to your head. Or when you’re bugging your father.”John heard the water turn off. Damnit.  
Dean grinned. “Yessir. I’ll do better.” And he made to move from between his father’s legs only to be pulled forcefully back.“Sammy! Turn the water back on!” John called.“I’m already prune-like!” Sam’s voice called back.“He’s already prune-like, Dad.”“Shut up, Dean,” John said, then called, “Turn it back on and brush your teeth for five minutes! We’re not done yet!”There was some muffled swearing but the water turned back on and John started making quick work of unfastening Dean’s jeans, much to the boy’s distress.“Dad!”“How did you think this was going to happen?” John asked, shucking the jeans down along with the kid’s shorts. “Over.” And Dean was swift and obedient in draping himself over his father’s lap, obviously desperate to get this humiliating practice over and done with.Dean jumped at the first blow, but took the first quarter of the spanking with a surprising stoicism considering his earlier reactions to John’s impromptu shows of displeasure. He whimpered somewhere around the thirtieth swat, which John took as a sign to start the lecture.“You’re reckless when you mouth off. You get that, right?” John asked, bringing his hand down harder than before.“Yessir,” Dean croaked, his hands grabbing the comforter of the motel bed and squeezing. He squirmed through the oncoming blows, but John knew his boy was remaining as still as he possibly could.“And when you get lazy, when you start not to care, when it doesn’t seem important...that’s reckless, too. You get that, right?” John punctuated the question with three more stinging slaps.“Yessir. M’sorry, Da-”“And when you get reckless, you get dead. I’ve always told you that. No more, Dean.” John laid one last tremendous smack down on his son’s now-red bottom, instigating the boy to cry out in pain. “You can’t get dead, son. I won’t let you. I can’t let you. You and your brother...it’s not worth it without you.” Without you, John wanted to tell him, it’s empty and sad and it fucking hurts. But he said instead, “I love you and I need you to do better.”It was this last line, this admission, that caused Dean to sob, his shoulders shaking as he lay limply over his father’s lap. John put a hand on his boy’s back and rubbed, mumbling quiet assurances to calm both of them down.  
The shower turned off.Sam called, “Can I come out now?”John called back, “In a minute.”Dean slid off John’s lap, landing neatly on his knees on the floor. He buried his face into his father’s side, his breathing hitched. John allowed this for a few seconds, before reaching down and with two surprisingly gentle hands guided the boy back up to his feet. Dean fought to regain control of his breathing as John brought the boxers and jeans back up, winced and bit his lip when the rough fabric touched his tender backside.“All right,” John said softly, taking in the tear-stained cheeks and naked regret. He spread his arms. “C’mere.”Dean launched himself into his father’s embrace without hesitation._____________________________Dean’s ass stung and the shower didn’t make it feel any better.His head felt heavy and tired and he just wanted to sleep, but Dad had said that Dean needed a shower, that desecrating graves wasn’t a clean occupation, so now Dean was in the shower. And his ass stung.Sam had come out before he had permission and seen Dean crying in Dad’s arms, so now Dean needed to do something drastic to the little bitch - like shaving his girly head while he slept, or doing the itching powder thing again (as that had been pretty clever.) Or maybe he just wouldn’t do anything...and if Sam ever dared to mention it again, Dean would just have to pound the living daylights out of the kid.Yeah, that would probably work.Dad was waiting for him when he got out of the bathroom, handing him clothes to sleep in and pulling the covers back on the bed that Sam wasn’t in.“You’re with me tonight,” Dad said. Sam had been sleeping in Dad’s bed since they got to the motel, babbling to Dad about Dean’s love space and how he wasn’t allowed there. Which is perfectly true, Dean thought sleepily.“Mm,” Dean said by way of reply to Dad, his eyes drooping as he crawled in and laid down on his stomach. Dad pulled the covers over him, kissed the top of his head.“Night, Dean-o.”“Nigh’,” Dean mumbled, burying his face in his pillow. He felt Dad’s hand run through his hair, and was asleep before the hand pulled away.


	9. Chapter 9

She was beautiful. And she obviously had a thing for Dean. He could tell by the way she batted those long lashes at him, hiding her luscious-lipped smile behind that ornate paper fan. “You like hiding behind that thing, don’t you?” he asked, grinning charmingly.She giggled and it was a beautiful sound to Dean’s ears. What was more beautiful than the sound was her misunderstanding. She kept the fan up to her mouth with one hand and with the other she undid her red robe, letting the silken garment fall to her ankles.“Holy...” Dean let the swear taper off, his mouth gaping in awe. He’d never seen such big breasts on an Asian woman before, and it was a damn beautiful sight. “You are...” Gorgeous. Amazing. Magnificent. He wasn’t sure which adjective to use. So he asked instead, “What’s your name, anyway?”She looked at him a moment, her eyes crinkling with the smile she was still hiding. Then she said, in a voice so deep and throaty it could have been mistaken for masculine, “Dean.”Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s my name. What’s your name?”“Dean,” she insisted.“Aw, c’mon...” Dean took a step toward her. “You can tell me, can’t you? I mean you’ve already shown me your...uh...”“Wake up, buddy,” she said, her voice so low it sounded like Dad’s. “Dean.” It kinda freaked Dean out, to be honest.“Dude, you’re real pretty and all, but has anyone ever told you-”She threw the fan to the side and approached him like a panther stalking prey. She put her lips real close to his and Dean leaned down to kiss her (forget the freaky man voice this chick was hot), but she moved her mouth away and put it to his ear to whisper something intimate instead.“WAKE UP!”Dean started awake, his ass jumping from the seat of the Impala, his arms whipping this way and that. Sam’s laugh tinkled from behind him.“Samuel,” Dad’s voice was stern and unappreciative, but when Dean cast a pair of bleary agitated green eyes on him, he saw the small curve to the man’s lips.“Dude, you told Dad he was pretty,” Sam snickered from the back seat.  
Dean swallowed, his mouth dry. His head hurt a little from using the window as a pillow, but he somehow had enough energy to turn around and punch his little brother in the arm.“Dean,” Dad warned.Dean grunted, faced front again. “Why’d you wake me?” The bastards. He’d really been digging that dream.“We’re here,” Sam replied.Dean blinked at the shitty little motel located outside the Impala. He looked to Dad.“Where’s here?” he demanded, unable to keep the slight whine out of his voice.Luckily, Dad was in one of those moods he’d been in so often as of late - one of those moods in which he thought Dean’s tired whining not to be childish and irritating, but utterly adorable. Dad reached over and ruffled Dean’s hair. Dean glared, jerked away, smoothed the hair down.“Wyoming,” Dad told him.“Man, I hate Wyoming.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face, shook his head a little to clear up the fog. He peered at his father. “Did I really tell you you were pretty?”“You sure did, champ.”“I meant devilishly handsome.”“I know that’s what you meant.”Ten minutes later found the Winchesters in their new motel room, which was a dump. Dean didn’t really know why they were in Wyoming - they didn’t have a case to work on, they were just moving around. Dad couldn’t take Nebraska any longer, not after nearly a week of being there,and Dean admittedly had been getting more than a little fidgety as well. Sam didn’t really seem to give a shit about being uprooted for no reason, which was weird for Sam. In fact, after Dean had endured his little trip over Dad’s knee two nights previous, Sam had been pretty much up for whatever Dean wanted to do. Which was doubly weird.“Hey, you wanna go hit on those girls over there?” Sam had eagerly asked the night before, punching Dean lightly in the arm and nodding towards some trashy-looking women while Dad deliberately fumbled his pool shot.Now, Dean threw his duffel down onto the floor next to the motel dresser and then himself down onto one of the beds. His head still hurt and he wanted to go back to sleep, back to his busty Asian beauty and her   
flirtatious de-robing action. He was really glad Sammy hadn’t figured out he’d been using the laptop for porn, yet.Dean turned over onto his stomach, nestled his body further into the bed and his head further into the pillow, closed his eyes and listened to his father and brother shuffle around. They’d been getting along pretty well for a while now, which Dean was grateful for. He liked the calm and the quiet, the companionable silence that Sam and Dad seemed able to maintain - at least around Dean. In the days preceding the Teenage Ghost Whore hunt, he’d gone out a couple of times on a beer run only to return to Dad’s gruff silence and Sam’s face flushed red with recently released anger. But it was quiet while Dean was there. They were always careful of that.Dean sighed softly into the pillow. His head throbbed. He fell asleep anyway.He awoke, feeling drowsy and drunk and in pain, well aware that his backside had just been smacked, albeit lightly. He glared at Dad, who smirked in response and dropped a stack of newspapers onto Dean’s ass.“Look through those.”Dean groaned. He didn’t want to find a new job. He wanted to go back to sleep and dream happy pornographic dreams. He looked over to the table by the window to see Sam staring intently at the screen of his laptop, then back at Dad who was looking at him expectantly.“My head hurts,” Dean told him.Admitting to pain wasn’t really normal for Dean - he usually ignored it in favor of leaping to his father’s orders. But Dad had been back now for over a week and Dean was recognizing and accepting the change in his father - the worry, the affection, the glimpses of indulgence. And what kind of son would he be not to take advantage of that?Dad frowned. Dean stuffed his head back in his pillow and listened as the older hunter sought out the first aid kit, started rifling through it. He picked his head back up when Dad swore softly.“We’re out of Advil.”“I can make a pharmacy run,” Sam offered, closing his laptop. “Is there anything else we need?”Dean sat up, smiled at his little brother. “Thanks, Sammy.”Sam nodded. Dean rubbed at his head as Dad went over a list of what they should stock up on. The youngest Winchester left with the keys to the Impala stuffed in a gleeful hand, his older brother calling behind him to take care of his car.  
Dean looked back to his father, who was studying him with intent eyes. This kind of freaked Dean out.“What’s up, Dad?”As if coming to a decision, Dad gave a slight incline of his head, the look in his eyes indicating that it was more to himself than to Dean. He lowered himself onto Dean’s bed, resting his back against the headboard.“How bad does it hurt?” he asked.“Pretty bad.”“C’mere.”Dean just kind of looked at Dad, unsure of what he wanted, until the man threw an arm out to pull his oldest son in, arranging him so that his head was resting on his father’s lap.“Dad?” Dean asked. And then he felt his father’s coarse fingertips touch his temples, and remembered. His father used to do this when Dean had been 10 or 11, when the boy had gone through a stage of bad headaches.Dean had been surprised at first, when his father had bodily lifted him onto the couch only to lay him down and rest his aching head in his lap. The tired hunter would massage his boy’s forehead, knowing that it probably wasn’t helping all that much, but aware that Dean was appreciative of the rare comfort of his father’s hands. And Dean was then,as he was now.“Dean-o...we need to talk,” Dad said after a while, and Dean knew this was going to be one of those talks he didn’t want to have.“‘Bout what?”“About your brother.” Dad’s fingers pulled away from Dean’s forehead, and after a moment, they trailed through the younger hunter’s short hair,soft and smooth and loving. They rested at the nape of Dean’s neck, hesitant, almost apologetic. “About what we talked about at the hospital. Before I...before I died.”No. Dean didn’t want to have this talk at all.__________________________________Sam smiled at the teenaged girl cashier, who blushed and averted her eyes.“Do you, uh...get a lot of injuries?” she asked, taking in his purchases of multiple pain relievers, gauze, bandages, ointments, disinfectants, and multiple other medical supplies.“We’re rock climbers.” Sam supplied the answer as if he told people this every day. “Rocks are brutal.”  
She looked at him, batted her eyes. “We?”Oh, God. Jailbait. “My dad, my brother, and me. Rock climbers.”“Awesome,” she said.It was strange, Sam reflected as he threw the full plastic bag into the passenger seat of the Impala, that he had come to always think in terms of we. Never I. It was as if Sam didn’t exist without Dad or Dean, as if he was never an individual, just part of a unit. There was a time when Sam referred to himself as I, a time long ago, when Sam was 22 instead of 23 and walking from class to class in the bright California sun. He’d wave at people, the backpack slung over his shoulder filled with books and not weapons. He’d been I then, not we. Even with Jess, Sam had been Sam, not Sam and Jess, not we every hour of every day.Even before Dad had come back, a few months on the road with Dean, and Sam had become Sam and Dean, not just Sam anymore. And he knew, even when he’d been gone, Dean had never just been Dean. He’d been Dean and Absent Sam. A lump pervaded Sam’s throat as he drove out of the drug store parking lot. Dean never would have left Sam, but Sam had fought tooth and nail to get away from both Dad and Dean.Sam never would do such a thing again. He couldn’t. He realized this in the shower two days ago when he suddenly started to hate himself. Then he had felt inexplicably lighter and turned the shower off and asked if he could come out.But no, Dad hadn’t been done yet. Sam had reluctantly turned the water back on, but it hadn’t completely filtered out the sounds of Dean’s spanking...and somewhere near the end of it, Sam had started hating himself again and was overcome with grief.He had asked if he could come out, and even without permission, he eventually had left the bathroom, swallowing down his impulse to bawl. And there had been Dean, all 6’1” of him, on Dad’s lap, entangled in Dad’s solid arms, showing the most emotion Sam had ever seen out of his older brother, even more than when they were little. And the grief had tapered away, leaving behind warmth and comfort and fever.It was fucking weird.Sam hated it, hated that it seemed he could only feel his brother in these horrible moments of self-loathing.He parked the car in the motel parking lot, got out with the plastic bag in his hand. He froze, listened. Shit. Dad and Dean were fighting and Sam could hear their raised voices from the car. Now that was fucking weird. Dad and Dean never fought. Even when Dean was a teenager, their disagreements had been rare.  
Sam listened for a moment, but couldn’t make out their words, even from just outside the door. And when he came bursting through the door, they fell silent and tried not to look at him.Sam raised his eyebrows, looked between them. He slammed the door.“What the fuck are you fighting about?” he demanded, throwing the bag on the table and the car keys on the dresser.Dad didn’t look at him, but Dean did.And Sam felt sick, and angry, and scared.“I said what the fuck-?”“Watch your mouth,” Dad snapped, finally meeting his gaze. “I’ve had enough of the language, Sam.”“Well, I haven’t!” Sam retorted. “Now what were you fighting about?”“Your brother and I were having a private discussion-”“You don’t get to have a private discussion. If something’s going on, I deserve to know about it, too!” Dad’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Sam wasn’t about to back down. “For fuck’s sake, tell me!”A snarl emitted from Dad’s mouth, like a lion who was sick of being baited, and he made deliberate strides towards Sam.He came to a halt, however, when Dean made a mad dash for the bathroom. Sam heard a splash and then some retching, and Dad gave him a promising look before rushing to Dean’s aid.________________________________“I’m sorry, kiddo,” John soothed. He knelt on the floor, running a hand over Dean’s bent back as the boy coughed up the remains of his lunch. “I shouldn’t have...not when you weren’t feeling well...”“You shouldn’t have,” Dean agreed tersely. He rocked back, landing on his ass, on the dirty bathroom tile. John hesitated a moment, unsure if he was allowed to touch his son now that it was official that he was a terrible father - he’d made one kid hurl while talking about killing the other.But he couldn’t help himself; his arms snaked around his son’s torso and he pulled his boy back against his chest.“Are you okay, Dean?” Sam was standing in the doorway fixing John with a look of open disdain. Dean turned his head to his brother, took in the expression.“I’m fine, Sammy,” the older boy replied tiredly, his head lolling back onto his father’s shoulder. “Stop looking at Dad like that.”  
“But he-”“Didn’t do anything. I had a freakin’ migraine. Now close the door and chill out for a sec, will ya?”Sam huffed and glared, but slammed the door. John heard him stomping to the bed farthest from the bathroom, heard the bed creak with Sam’s weight.“The door slamming’s doing my head real good,” Dean muttered.“Does it feel any better, though?”“Yeah, it feels a lot better. There’s nothin’ like a nice puke to get the day rolling.”They were silent for a few moments, and it became apparent to John that his son wasn’t going to bring up the conversation they had just had for a long time to come. And John sure as Hell wasn’t going to instigate it anytime soon.“Alright, champ,” John said, getting to his feet and gently hauling Dean to his own. “Brush your teeth and take a nap, will you?”Dean snorted, “A nap? How old...” he trailed off, obviously realizing that at this point, that question was ten shades of absurd. John raised an eyebrow. Dean huffed in amusement. “Never mind. Yessir, I’ll take a nap.”“That’s my boy.”He patted Dean on the shoulder and left him to his teeth-brushing. He left the bathroom to find that Sam was laying on his back on the bed, his jaw tight as he glared at the ceiling.“Stand up, Samuel,” John ordered.Sam sat up, turning hostile eyes on his father. “What were you arguing about?”“That’s between your brother and me. Stand up.” Sam merely glowered in response. Dean came out of the bathroom and John moved to the other bed, pulled back the covers.“Dean, what were you arguing about?” Sam asked.“Leave it alone, Sam,” Dean replied tiredly. He pulled off his jeans and threw them into a corner of the room.“But-”“Your brother’s tired. Leave him alone.”  
Dean crawled into the bed, allowed his father to pull the covers over him, and turned to face the wall. John leaned down and whispered something in his ear, eliciting a brief nod and a frown from the boy.The older hunter moved back to Sam.“Stand.” John’s voice was so quiet and menacing that Sam forgot himself and obeyed. John took a seat at the edge of the bed.“No,” Sam said, a look of realization settling on his face as he realized what his father intended to do. He began to back away, but John’s hand snatched out and grabbed the boy’s wrist, tugging the kid firmly forward.“Yes,” John told him.“When something affects the two of you, it affects me, too. You can’t just leave me in the dark. I deserve to know!”The kid was right, John knew, and it killed him a little on the inside but he couldn’t let Sam know. What if knowing was the key? What if Sam lost hope? No, Sam couldn’t know. John wouldn’t let him know. John would save Sam from this. Dean would save Sam from this. There was no reason for Sam to know.So John growled, “Yeah? And what about this attitude that you’re giving me?” He brought the kid over his lap with a solid pull of the wrist. “What do you deserve for that?”“I’m 23-”“I know. I was there 23 years ago when you were born. This isn’t new information, son and this situation isn’t changing.”“But Dean’s right there!” It was a whine, a full-blown whine, and John couldn’t help the small, evil grin that flashed over his face. Right or not, the kid was being annoying as fuck and he had to be stopped.“I guess you’ll have to try to keep it down then, so he can get some rest.”And with that, John set in spanking quick, hard, and consistent over his son’s jean-clad backside. It didn’t last too long - Sam wasn’t Dean. John had conjured a mild heat within fifteen swats and by eighteen, Sam was making noises of discomfort, and not long after, promising to be good.“I’ll be good!” Sam pleaded as John continued raining down the swats.“Yeah?” John asked. “No more slamming doors?”“No more slamming doors!” Sam promised, tears flowing freely down his face.“No more stomping around?”“No more stomping around!”  
“No more swearing?”“You swear!”“Who’s the dad here?”“Just because you’re the dad doesn’t mean you have the right to be a hypocrite!”John stopped the spanking, left his hand resting on Sam’s warm backside.“Rethink that, Sammy.”“I’m right.”“You’re thinking in terms of fairness, Sam,” John told him, tapping his fingers over his son’s right buttock like a bored writer at a desk. “It’s an admirable quality, really. A quality I don’t have. So that’s why, unless you want me to take your pants down-”“I won’t swear!” Sam cut him off. “Please, don’t!”And John didn’t, just applied three more mild swats to his son’s bottom and stood him up.“I don’t want to hear any more of this attitude from you, understand?”“Yessir,” Sam mumbled, his face flushed red and wet from tears.“And when Dean and I tell you we’re discussing something private, you don’t press...is that understood?”“No sir.”John sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. How was he supposed to get through to this kid?“Sammy...please?”The boy was silent for a moment, looking at first startled by this new tactic, then suspicious, and finally resigned.“Okay,” he said softly.“Yeah?” John asked, surprised. Sam nodded.Huh. He’d have to remember that one. John reached over and started unfastening the boy’s jeans.“But I didn’t swear!” Sam yelped.“Settle down, buddy, you’re not in any more trouble,” John told him, tugging the pants down. “Step out.” Sam obeyed, looking bewildered as his father got to his feet and headed towards the front of the bed. John pulled back the covers and turned to gesture to the boy to get in, but   
Sam was turned the other way, looking young and thin in his boxers and T-shirt, his attention on his older brother’s quiet form in the opposite bed.John wondered briefly if that psychic shit was at play again.“You awake, Dean-o?” he asked.“Who could sleep through all that hollering?” Dean’s mutter was muffled by the pillow.“Scoot over to let your brother in.” John saw the flash of gratitude cross over Sam’s face and felt validated by the small decision.“Aw, Dad, can’t he sleep with you?”“Maybe Daddy wants his own bed for once.”Dean groaned, but rolled over to the other end of the bed. John held the covers up while Sam climbed in, tucked them up to the boy’s chin. He leaned down and kissed Sam’s forehead, made to move away but was halted by the hand grabbing his wrist.“M’sorry, Dad,” Sam whispered earnestly. “I didn’t mean to be so...you know?”John felt warmth spread throughout his stomach and guilt pervade his throat. His Sam. His baby. This kid was too good inside to ever turn evil.“I know, kiddo. It’s okay. Just sleep for a while, alright?”And Sam slept. And so did Dean.It was an hour later that Sam started writhing in pain and fell off of the bed. John rushed to his side as Dean’s eyes popped open.John held his youngest firmly against his chest while Dean put a hesitant hand through his brother’s hair, both whispering nonsensical reassurances in quiet, fervent tones.Sam finally settled, looked up at his father and brother with bloodshot eyes.“Dean’s gonna shoot some kid,” he told them.John’s eyes met Dean’s eyes over Sam’s head. They were thinking the same thing. John knew this because Dean mouthed it as John thought it.“Fuck.” Of course, it was Sammy who said it out loud.John dropped his face into Sam’s hair. It was times like these when swearing was of the utmost necessity.


	10. Chapter 10

Fifteen hours - that was how long it was going to take to get to Oregon, and they weren’t even halfway there yet. They were in their sixth hour on road and Sam was this close to performing some kind of insanely violent act upon his older brother. Dean wouldn’t stop bitching about the vision, shooting accusing looks and defensive words at Sam, as if Sam had concocted all of this as some kind of slanderous attack on Dean’s moral character.“I wouldn’t just shoot some guy who didn’t deserve it!” It was the tenth time that Dean had pointed this out, the fifth time since he had been behind the wheel, and as with the previous four times, he stepped down on the gas just a little bit more to show his displeasure.“Dude, slow down,” Sam said quietly from the passenger seat, glancing back. Dad was sleeping sitting up, his head against the window as Dean’s had been earlier that day...er, the previous day. Sam unconsciously rubbed at his eyes. 2 am. Why did their lives have to be so fucking weird and inconsistent? What he wouldn’t give to just be sleeping in a bed right now...“You got somethin’ to say about my driving now?” Dean snapped.“I haven’t said anything about anything, Dean! We can’t explain the vision until it plays out, okay? I just think you should slow down a little. You might hit something.”“Oh, so I’m a bunny killer now?”Sam sighed. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”“You think I’m some asshole who just goes around shooting innocents-”“Shut the fuck up, Dean. All you’re doing is projecting your own insecurities about yourself onto me-”“You prance around all high and mighty with your bleeding heart and puppy dog eyes-”“I do not prance, Dean!”Dean opened his mouth to retort - undoubtedly with something not only obnoxious, but nonsensical, but Dad sighed and shifted in the backseat and the older boy’s mouth snapped shut. Sam glanced back again, ascertaining that his father was still asleep. Sometimes it was a good thing that the Impala was a loud car.“Just slow down, okay?”Dean glanced at Sam.“Sure, Sammy,” he agreed. Then he pressed his foot down on the gas.  
Three minutes later the three Winchesters were jerked and rattled in their seats when the Impala ran over a particularly large bump in the road. Sam heard Dad’s head thump against the window, heard the loud swear, and winced.“What did you hit?” the older man demanded. Then, “Slow the fuck down,Dean. How fast are you going?”“He’s going 40 over,” Sam told his father.“Dude, tattle much?” Dean hissed.“Pull over!”Dean pulled over and the three men exited the car, Sam rushing to the driver’s seat when Dad snapped and pointed in that direction, shutting the door when Dad barked, “Close the door, Sam!” Once realizing that Dad and Dean weren’t immediately re-entering the car, Sam groaned in remorse. He should’ve kept his goddamn mouth shut. Dean was obviously upset enough as it was without having Dad pissed at him, too.Although... part of him wondered if maybe this would take Dean’s mind off the vision, maybe if Dean were pissed at Sam for babbling about his flagrant speeding, then he wouldn’t be pissed at Sam for, through no fault of his own, having a skull-crushing headache which involved the visual of Dean shooting some guy.And Sam didn’t know why Dean was so defensive about it anyway. Sam didn’t believe anything bad of his brother - he didn’t look down on him or find him to be of lesser moral character...but Dean wasn’t Sam. Dean didn’t see dimension the way Sam saw dimension. To Dean, good was good and bad was bad and anything in between was just something to be ignored. Dean got this flat way of thinking from Dad, Sam knew. In Sam’s longing to be normal, he had gone out and attempted to socialize himself,become one amongst the civilized, and in doing so he had left Dean and Dad to their own lives - to their emotional and social detachments, to their twisted occupation of hunting and killing and going out for a beer afterwards.Dean was desensitized. And that was the reason that Sam could believe that his brother might be capable of killing a man, even an innocent man,without much thought. As long as he believed he was doing the right thing.The back door on the passenger side creaked open and Sam glanced back to see his brother get in. Dean glared back at him as he shut the door. He laid down on his side with his head behind Sam’s seat, curling his legs up to fit in the space.“I’m sorry, man,” Sam said sincerely. “I just-”“Shut it, Sam. I don’t give a fuck, okay?”  
Sam stayed quiet a moment. But just a moment. “Where’d Dad go?”“He went to see what I hit.”Dad came back a minute later, slumped down in the passenger seat.“Raccoon,” he said by way of greeting. That was all he said. Sam put the car in drive, hoping the next seven hours would pass by relatively quickly._________________________________Dean caught Sam’s attention behind Dad’s back and rolled his eyes. Sam smirked. Dad had been exchanging good natured marine jibes with this guy since they introduced themselves (or, really, how Dad had introduced them - a state trooper and his junior trooper tag-alongs) and Dean kind of just wanted to find this Duane Tanner kid and get this shit over with.Dad and the sergeant broke out into another prolonged rumble of deep chuckles. Dean sighed audibly. Sam’s head snapped in his direction, a look of awe and horror in his wide eyes. Dean gulped, took in the way Dad and the sergeant were also staring at him. Nobody spoke for what seemed like a century.“Your boys are getting fidgety,” the sergeant finally offered, with a smile at Dad.“They are at that,” Dad agreed. He stuck out his hand and the sergeant shook it readily.Dad waited until they were out of sight to make his move, but Dean easily evaded the swat anyway, skirting to the side and then slowing to walk behind Dad. Sam snickered, then sobered.“Hey,” he said, extending an index finger towards a tree.“Tree,” Dean stated. He nodded. “Very good, Sammy.”“Shut up, Dean,” Sam replied. He led them to the tree, pointed to the carved word. Dad’s eyes widened.“Croatoan?” Dean sounded perplexed as he watched his father’s fingers intricately trace the jagged letters. “What the hell is Croatoan?”Dad gave him a look. “Did they not teach you things in elementary school, son?”“Roanoke,” Sam piped up. “The lost colony.”Dean scowled as Dad shot Sam a pleased look. Since when did Dad ever show pleasure about knowing school-like stuff, anyway? And was he just going to stand there looking impressed with Sam all day or were one of them going to fill him in about this “Roanoke” crap? Roanoke...lost colony...oh, man.  
“Fuck me!”Dad and Sam looked at him. A couple of passerby stopped on the sidewalk and shot him disapproving looks before moving along.“No, thanks,” Sam said.“Watch your mouth.” Dad’s tone was sharp.“No, it’s that, like...colony where everyone just disappeared, right? And left the single word carved on the post?” Sam nodded slowly, his face pulled in that familiar I-have-an-idiot-for-a-brother expression. Dad, however, looked somewhat pleased.“That’s my boy,” the older hunter said pulling his hand away from the treeand moving it towards Dean. Dean jerked away.“Dad, I know you’re on this affectionate father kick, but no ruffling of the hair in public, ‘kay?”Dad snorted, let his hand drop to his side. “I looked into this when you guys were kids...I have a theory, though I’m not entirely sure it’s going to be very helpful at this point.”As it turned out, it wasn’t very helpful. Dad was pretty sure that Croatoan was a demon who sometimes went by other names - names that sounded pretty nonsensical to Dean, such as Reshef and Dever - a demon of plague and pestilence. But if this were true, the fact that the word or name “Croatoan” was already carved in this tree simply meant that the demon had already passed through...and the Winchesters were going to have to deal with whatever it left behind.Thirty minutes later Dean shot some guy. Some guy who wasn’t Duane Tanner, but Duane Tanner’s father. This was a valid shooting,though. The man had a knife and was fully intending to use it for inhumane purposes -like killing his wife, or worse, killing Dean.The woman (“My name is Beverly,” she sobbed to Dad, who was trying his best to be gentle in the midst of her hysterics) apparently had no idea what was happening or why her son and husband were suddenly intent on killing her.“Beverly, do you know where your other son is?” Dad asked as he helped her to the car. Dean glared at Sam, knowing he hadn’t shot the youngest Tanner kid even though the kid was clearly evil. Sam glared back, his eyes dancing with self-righteousness. It was times like these when Dean wanted to beat some sense into his baby brother. Sam was all about seeing the good in people, and that was fine as long as there was some good to see. But when you walk in on a kid and his father smiling gleefully while holding down some woman and slicing her up with a knife -well, that’s a perfect excuse to shoot someone. Even a 16-year-old.  
“Duane’s on a fishing trip,” Beverly told him, just as the other two Tanners had earlier reported.She directed them to the local doctor’s office and Dad and Sam helped her inside, leaving Dean to haul the corpse out of the trunk and trail them with the dead body slung over his shoulders.“This is where it happens,” Sam said quietly to Dean later in the lobby while Dad talked to the doc, Beverly, and Nurse Pamela in the patient room. “This is where you shoot Duane Tanner.”“Well, if he’s anything like his dad or brother, I’ll know I’m justified,” Dean replied.Sam got this kind of look on his face at that, like maybe Dean wouldn’t be justified, like maybe shooting a man was never justified, but Dean pointedly ignored it. If there was anything he had learned from Dad, from this life Dad had led them into, it was that you did what had to be done. And that’s exactly what Dean would do.For the most part, Dean thought, looking at Sammy. There were some things Dean wouldn’t do, would never do, would die before doing.“What?” Sam asked, and realizing that he had been staring, Dean looked away.“Nothin’.”Dad came out of the other room, then, looking grim.“Boys, check your cell phones.”Dean and Sam obeyed, then exchanged quick looks that informed them they’d gotten the same answer.“No signal,” Sam said.“All the phone lines in town are dead,” Dad said.Well, fuck.___________________________________John closed his eyes tightly so he didn’t have to watch Dean shoot Beverly. Three shots. That’s how many it took for Dean to be fairly certain that she was dead.Shoot it until you’re sure it can’t move, John had told Dean as the twelve-year-old looked up at him with awe-struck green eyes. Never think one shot will be enough. If you think that, you’ll be wrong.The sergeant was there now - Dean had picked him up while returning from his investigation of the other town - which hadn’t been much of an investigation.  
“They had the road blocked off,” Dean had said. “They were armed, but they were lousy shots. Thank God. They might’ve hurt the car!”John should have shot Beverly. Not Dean. But Dean had stepped in, fired rapid questions to be certain that the woman was infected, and when the sergeant failed to step up and shoot his friend, the bullets had fled Dean’s gun. One. Two. Three. And the woman who had been Beverly had slumped in the corner where she’d been cowering, her body limp, dead, and bloody.John had never seen his boy like this, so ready and willing to take charge and command the situation. But the look left in the green eyes was no longer eager as it had been when they were the eyes of a little boy, but dull and haunted, and John knew that every time that gun fired and every time a body fell, his boy was being cut up inside.That’s why when Duane Tanner entered the scene, when he asked where his parents were, when the sergeant herded the kid into a chair at gunpoint, John grabbed Dean before the kid could make a move and dragged him out of the room. Sam followed.“Don’t,” John said.“Don’t,” Sam agreed, not hiding the worry from his expression. The younger boy had been eerily quiet throughout this entire ordeal, chewing his bottom lip, sticking his fingers in his mouth to bite his nails like he had when he was fourteen and concerned about a biology test, leaving John thinking that this kind of anticipation wasn’t good for his youngest.“He’s infected,” Dean hissed.“Every time I’ve seen something happen in my visions, it’s been something that we’ve had to stop,” Sam said. “Why do you think this is any different?”“Because he’s got a demon virus, Sam,” Dean said slowly, as if he was explaining this to a very young child or someone who was mentally incapable of processing the words.“How do you know? You don’t know! It’ll be a mistake.”“What would be a mistake is letting him live long enough to infect someone else,” Dean snapped. “We do what has to be done.”“No,” John interjected before another word could escape Sam’s open mouth. “You’re not shooting him, Dean.”“What the fuck-”“You’re not shooting him,” John replied, giving the kid a firm look. “If it needs to be done, I’ll do it. You shouldn’t have to.”“Nobody’s doing it,” Sam argued.  
“No, I’m doing it,” Dean replied, pointedly ignoring Sam. “You see, the fates-”and here, Dean lifted a finger and tapped Sam’s forehead, much to the younger boy’s annoyance, “-commanded it.”“You are not-”“Dean,” Sam cut John off. “Please...man, c’mon. Think about it. What if he’s not? How will you feel then?” He turned to John, the plea in his eyes. “Please?”John sighed. “Sam, I-”This time it wasn’t Sam who interrupted John - it was the sound of the door banging shut behind Dean. That goddamned kid.John rushed to the door, Sam behind him. He rattled the knob, but it was locked. Dean had locked the door to keep them out. John swallowed his anger. The kid thought he was doing the right thing. That was the only reason for this. It was something John would have done, had it been him in Dean’s place. John would have been just as stubborn and probably more thoughtless.They listened at the door, listened to the muffled, panicked voices. The I-don’t-knows and the pleas of the kid in the chair for mercy, for Dean to think about what he was doing, the “It’s not in me!”John felt the warm weight of Sam’s head fall on his shoulder.“Dad...” the kid whispered. John turned his head slightly so that his cheek brushed Sam’s hair.“It’s going to be okay,” John told him, even though he knew it probably wouldn’t be okay, knew after all these years that it was never going to be okay.They waited, but there was no shot. Eventually, the occupants of the room filed out, Dean and the Sarge last.“You didn’t do it,” Sam said quietly.“I didn’t do it,” Dean agreed, then looked to John.Kid was waiting for a reprimand, John knew. He knew that look. That was Dean’s “I’m not sorry, Dad. Do whatever you will to me. Bring it.” look.John laid a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder.“Why didn’t you?” he asked.Dean shrugged, looked between his father and brother.“I don’t know,” he replied.__________________________________  
Sam struggled, but she cut him anyway. Then she cut herself. Then she put her blood in Sam’s blood. That’s when Sam knew it was over. Twenty-three years...and it was over.Dad shot Nurse Pam twice in the back. That’s how many times Dad had to shoot her in order to know that she was immobilized.Shoot it until you’re sure it can’t move, Dad had said and the gun had felt cold and heavy in Sam’s small hands. Never shoot it only once. If you think once is enough, you’ll be wrong.“Sammy,” Dean’s voice sounded strangled and he moved quickly towards Sam, falling to his knees beside his brother.“He’s infected,” the Sarge said. “She infected him.”He raised his gun to shoot Sam but Dean snarled and Sam saw the Sarge freeze and lower his gun because Dad had just cocked his own gun, had set the barrel against the sergeant’s head.“I like you, man,” Dad said softly. “But you put that gun on my son again and I will kill you.”“Your son...”“We’re not state troopers,” Dad said calmly and the sergeant put his gun completely away.“But he was going to kill me!” Duane said as he pointed to Dean who was helping Sam to his feet. It’s true, Sam thought. This is unjust. Sam sat himself down on the cold metal medical table and Dean followed suit.“I don’t care about you,” Dad replied, his tone cold and dismissive. It was only when he turned his eyes on Sam that it became clear that Dad was terrified. The older hunter moved towards his sons, sat on Sam’s other side on the table.“Look, John, I’m real sorry, but your son is going to-”“I’m aware,” John cut the sergeant off. Sam felt his father’s broad hand on his back, felt it tremble, felt Dean’s body tense next to him.“Just get out of here,” Dean said. He fished through his jacket pocket and threw his keys at the older black man. “You can have our car. There’s a lot of weapons in the trunk...you can blow your way through most obstacles.”“Go with them,” Sam heard himself say.“No,” Dean said.  
“Dad,” Sam said, turning pleading eyes on Dad, knowing this had worked for him plenty as of late. “Dad...you and Dean go. You have each other. Just...leave me my gun. I can take care-”“No,” Dad said sternly.“John, this is suicide-”“Leave!” Dad barked, and it was a sound that still caused both Sam and his brother to flinch. The doctor and Duane fled. The sergeant gave them all one last look before following.“Please, Dean...Dad...go,” Sam pleaded, even though he knew it was no use. “Why stay? Why die when you don’t have to?”“We’ve lost enough,” Dean said quietly. “Haven’t we, Sammy?”“You have Dad, Dean.”“Dad’s not you.”Oh, God. Sam was going to die. Sam was going to turn evil and then die, but Sam was going to die. He knew this because Dean had just said “I love you” in the only way Dean knew how.“We’re not leaving,” Dad said, and the hand that had been resting on Sam’s back reached over so that the man’s arm was encompassing his son. He pulled Sam into his side and put his face into Sam’s hair. “We’re not going.”“Kill me before I turn evil,” Sam said.“No,” Dean shook his head.“You have to. I might kill you. Don’t let me kill you.”“No.” Dean was more forceful this time and Sam didn’t feel like arguing the issue with his brother, who didn’t seem to know another word at this point. He turned to Dad.“Dad...you have to kill me sometime.”“Not now,” Dad said.“In the next few hours,” Sam told him. “You have to kill me in the next few hours.”“No,” Dean said and Dad said nothing and the Winchesters were quiet for a time which Sam could only take for so long.“What were you two arguing about?” he asked.Dad lifted his head from Sam’s hair, looked at the boy with an odd expression on his face. “What?”  
“Yesterday. What were you two arguing about?”“We already talked about this, Sam,” Dad said, his voice taking on a odd mixture of sternness and panic. “Remember? Was that a pleasant experience?”“You’re not going to spank me before you kill me,” Sam replied bluntly. “Not even you can stick to your guns that much. I’m going to die and you two are claiming to want to go down with me. Can’t we be honest before we die?”Dad said, “No.”Dean said, “He’s right.”Dad glared. “Dean...”“What? You gonna punish me in Hell? I don’t want him wondering-”“Oh, so you want him knowing-?”“Knowing what?” Sam demanded, but the door swung open before either of the older Winchesters could reply and the doctor came in, looking timid.“You guys...you should see this,” she said._______________________________Empty. The town had been barren. You could hear the wind blow, frogs croak, paper rustle, pin drop...whatever fucking cliche you wanted. Gone. Everything was fucking gone.Five hours later, Sam’s blood was still clean. The doc said that he’d dodged a bullet. Dean felt relieved, then nervous. What the fuck did all of this shit mean anyway? Why did this happen? And why was it over now?The Winchesters said their goodbyes and piled in the car. Dean got in the back, knowing that Dad needed Sam as close as possible, knowing that now that Dad was all new and different and cuddly like a girl sometimes, that the older hunter needed to be able to reach out and touch Sam to know that Sam was still there.“How the hell was Sam immune to the freaky demon virus?” Dean demanded. Sam was snoring softly in the passenger seat, as Dean had been doing the day before. Dean hoped his little brother was dreaming happy pornographic dreams, hoped that the kid wasn’t going to wake screaming from a nightmare, or worse - another vision.“Let’s just...count our blessings that he was. Okay, champ?”Dean snorted. “What blessings?”Dad didn’t say much after that.  
They drove straight out of Oregon, right into Washington state. Tramped tiredly into the motel room. Sam’s stomach growled and so did Dean’s. Hunger was contagious like yawns.“Why don’t you boys lay down for a bit?” Dad suggested, even though the circles under his own eyes were dark. “I’ll go get us some food.”Neither of them argued. Sam settled down on one of the beds. Dean shoved him over, laid down on the same bed. Sam didn’t tease him about this. They laid there for a long time, not talking, listening to each other breathe. Dean was fine with this.“Didn’t want me knowing what?”Of course, he had expected this question since Dad had left the room.“Forget it.”“No. And you know I won’t. And you didn’t want me wondering. Tell me, Dean.”Dean looked at his brother. Sammy shouldn’t know, he knew. Dad didn’t want Sam to know. Dean didn’t want Sam to know. Dean himself didn’t want to know. But Dean knew that if he were Sam, he would want to know, too.“Tell me,” Sam said again, his voice less of a command and more of a plea, and it reminded Dean of when Sam had learned about mothers and how they existed.Tell me about our mommy, Dean, Sam had begged, four-year-old eyes trusting his brother to know everything that was ever important to anyone ever. Tell me.So Dean told him.


	11. Chapter 11

John was halfway between the car and the motel door when he heard Sam’s raised voice. Knowing that there was no way this could be a good thing, he rushed the rest of the way, fast food bag clutched firmly in his left hand, and opened the door expecting to find calamity and chaos, but instead only discovering his two boys standing on opposite sides of the bed furthest from the door, staring at each other. He could only see Dean’s back, but Sam’s eyes were welled with tears, his face red and flushed and his mouth struggling between a straight line and a frown.“What’s going on here?” John demanded.Dean turned to look at him and the guilt in those green eyes was palpable.Shit, John thought. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.“I...I told him,” Dean said, his voice so low, so quiet that John had to strain to hear it. “He...I...”Fuck. He did.“I deserved to know!” Sam cut his brother off abruptly. “He just told me what I’ve deserved to know since before you died!” Sam’s eyes blazed and John was surprised that his skin didn’t sear and blister under his son’s furious glare.“Sammy...” Dean said, his voice soft, almost submissive. “Sammy, please. Just...we were just lookin’ out for you, you know? Please, Sammy...”Sam’s gaze snapped firmly to his brother.“Looking out for me? How the hell is withholding the truth ‘looking out for me’? How the hell is my father telling my brother that he might have to kill me looking out for me? Looking out for either of us?” He looked at his father, letting the angry tears fall now, drip down his cheeks, down his chin, fall to his shirt and to the floor. “You fucking bastard! How could you put that heaping pile of shit on his shoulders?”John, realizing the door was still open and that he was standing paralyzed like some kind of terrified idiot in the threshold, stepped in and closed the door behind him.“Sam...calm down,” he said, and for the first time since he was resurrected he started feeling his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, feeling helpless and out of sorts when he couldn’t feel the comforting rectangular form. He threw the bag of food onto the motel dresser.“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Sam said, his voice now low with anger. “Out of all the things...all the things you’ve never told me and I’ve found out about...found about not from you, never from you, sometimes not even from Dean...this. I mean, what the fuck is this, Dad?”  
“Sam-”“You should’ve just left me with the gun in the fucking doctor’s office! This problem would already be solved!”“Sam, don’t say that!” Dean snapped, sounding more like himself than he had since John had entered the room. “You’re not going to die! Nobody’s going to kill you! We’re going to figure this thing out, okay?”John watched as Sam let out a ragged sigh, took a few deep breaths. The boy walked from the side of the bed, sat down, and dropped his head so that his eyes had nowhere to go but the floor. He lifted his hands to cradle his head, holding it tight like it hurt.“Sammy...” Dean said, and he reached his hand out to touch his brother’s shoulder only to have Sam jerk away.“Don’t touch me.”And Dean planted his own eyes on the floor. Then he turned, looked at John, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.“He...deserved to know,” the older boy mumbled. “I-”“We’ll talk about it soon,” John told him, pointing to the end of the bed that the boys hadn’t claimed, indicating that Dean should sit. Dean obeyed, placing his eyes back on the floor and dragging his feet to the bed where he slumped quite like Sam had slumped.John moved to Sam, sat tentatively next to the him. He tried for the shoulder touch, like Dean had, and was treated to the same reaction. He waited for his boy’s breathing to slow again before trying once more, only to have Sam snatch his hand out of the air and squeeze it roughly, painfully, before throwing it back at him like a piece of useless garbage.“Don’t fucking touch me,” the boy snarled. “I can’t even wrap my head around this.”They sat in silence for at least five minutes, Sam with his head in hands, silent tears dropping from his face to his denim-clad knees, Dean staring at the blank television screen with an equally blank face, and John struggling to squash all anger and fear before confronting this bitch of a situation.Finally, the oldest Winchester placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder, kept it firmly there when the boy attempted to jerk away again, squeezed lightly when Sam finally relaxed.“You hate me,” Sam grunted. “You’ve always hated me.”John scoffed. “The hell I do.”“You told my brother to kill me.”  
“Yeah?” John asked. “Is that what he said?” He looked to Dean, who was biting his lip nervously, his arms wound tightly around his stomach, rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed. “I guess Dean and I have more to discuss than I thought.”Sam’s head snapped up and John was once again surprised that his skin managed to remain in tact despite the fire in his son’s eyes. “He said he had to save me. He said you told him to kill me if he couldn’t save me.”“That sounds accurate,” John agreed. “I believe that’s what I said.”Sam let out a breath, seemed to deflate. “I deserved to know this from the beginning. You had no right to tell Dean and not tell me.”“I was trying to protect you.”“You’re terrible at that,” Sam said, and this time John did feel it. Hurt seared his stomach like fire.“Yeah,” John nodded. “I’m sorry.”“And you put that shit all on Dean. He was losing it when you died. How could you do that to him?”“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said, throwing a reproachful look his brother’s way.“I shouldn’t have,” John said. He looked to Dean. “Sam’s right. I shouldn’t have done that to you.” He continued to look at his oldest until Dean nodded and looked back at the floor. When he looked back to Sam, he found the kid staring at him with a considering look, as if he didn’t know quite what to make of John.“You gonna kill me?” the boy asked.John shook his head. “No one’s going to kill you, baby.” The endearment escaped his mouth with ease, and Sam cocked an eyebrow at his father. John hadn’t called Sam “baby” since the kid had turned eight, had glared at John, had told John in no uncertain terms, I am not a baby.“If I turn evil, I want you to kill me,” Sam said.“No,” Dean said.“Nobody’s killing you, Sammy,” John told him.“But if I turn evil-”“We won’t let that happen,” John told him. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it, shaking his head as if he thought it wasn’t worth it.The family fell silent again. John eventually felt Sam’s head burrow into his neck, but the boy pulled away after a short while, less than half a   
minute, and got to his feet. John pointed to the now cold bag of food, but Sam shook his head.“Not hungry.”“Go take a shower then. Get ready for bed.”“Dean didn’t do anything wrong. I deserved to know.”“Your brother disobeyed.”“He didn’t-”“Do you want a spanking, too? Because I can arrange that.”Sam glared. John sighed, swatted the boy’s butt once, and watched as his youngest trudged to the bathroom, undoubtedly grumbling nasty things about his father under his breath. He managed not to slam the door behind him, which John was grateful for.“Dean.”The kid turned his head towards John, still looking nervous and conflicted and exhausted as Hell.“M’not sure I did the wrong thing.” Dean blinked tiredly at his father, ran a hand through his short hair.“I’m not sure you did, either.” Upon seeing Dean’s confused look, John clarified, “By Sam. You disobeyed. Come here.”“You mad?” Dean asked, getting slowly to his feet and moving to stand in front of his father.“Little bit,” John replied, working the fastenings on his son’s jeans.“Use your belt.”John stopped abruptly, his fingers grasping Dean’s waistband, holding the jeans up. He looked at his son, whose face had abandoned its lost puppy look for something more akin to determination.“Dean...what?”“It should hurt.”John swallowed, tugged the jeans down so his son stood in only boxers. It should hurt. Those words were going to haunt him more than Hell. To John’s knowledge, Dean had felt his previous two spankings had hurt - even the one the previous night, when John had spanked him over his jeans for that crazy ass speeding. He remember quite clearly his son rubbing his backside and glaring and flinching when John sent him off to the car with one last swat.“It doesn’t usually?” John asked.  
“It should hurt more,” Dean clarified, stepping out of his jeans and kicking them to the wall. “I was bad.”Huh. If there was any proof that his son was overtired, it was the fact that he just gave the most childish reason in the history of his adulthood. “You just said you weren’t sure you’d done the wrong thing,” John reminded him. “How were you bad when you might have been right?”“I deserve it,” Dean insisted.“For what?”“I didn’t take good enough care of Sammy while you were gone.”Ah. “He looks well enough in tact to me,” John said, glancing in the direction of the bathroom.“I hit him,” Dean told his father. “I was freakin’ out and I took it out on him.”“You were hurting. I’m sure Sam forgives you.”Dean shook his head stubbornly. John sighed. His heart was aching for the kid, it really was, but this was just irritating. Too many words. He was tempted to just give the kid a couple of halfhearted swats and put him to bed - but he knew that if he did that, Dean would never fall asleep, would be housing this parasitic guilt for God knows how long if John didn’t get rid of it for him.He took Dean’s wrist, tugged the kid over his lap so that Dean’s upper half was resting comfortably on the bed.“My belt’s on my jeans,” Dean said, moving his arm awkwardly to point towards the spot where he’d kicked his jeans. “If you’d rather use mine.”John rolled his eyes, drew down the boy’s boxers, watching as Dean buried his face into his arm. He cracked his hand down on Dean’s backside and kept up an unrelenting rhythm, each blow just as hard or harder than the last. Dean was silent for a good long while, the only sounds in the room being those of the unmelodious reproduction of flesh colliding with flesh, and the muffled running of water from the bathroom faucet.It wasn’t long before John had sufficiently pinked Dean’s bottom, and it seemed even a shorter amount of time that the boy’s rear was emblazoned red. And still Dean didn’t cry.And goddamnit, John’s hand was starting to hurt.He stopped as abruptly as he had started, resting his hand on his son’s hot bottom.“My belt’s on my jeans,” Dean said again, his voice tight with pain.  
Goddamnit. No. John laid a tremendous smack upon the already tender flesh and Dean whimpered.“You did a real good job with Sammy, you know,” John said gruffly. “You always have. You’ve always taken care of him and you never should’ve had to. Not as much as you did. Nobody could’ve done better.”Dean didn’t say anything, buried his face deeper into his arm.“Took care of me, too,” John said. “I told you this before I died. I told you I was proud of you. And then I put the worst kind of weight on your shoulders.” Dean remained silent and John swatted once again. “My question is why do you feel you deserve for this to hurt more than it already does?” Nothing. John’s hand rained down half a dozen more swats. “Answer me,” he ordered.“‘Cause I’m bad,” Dean mumbled into his arm. “I told you. I’m bad.”Oh, dear crumbling heart. John felt the pieces fall and shatter at the bottoms of his feet just as irritation surged up through his veins. Why couldn’t the damn boy just cry?He started the spanking back up, even harder than before - terrible blowsthat he feared would bruise his kid, have Dean sitting uncomfortably for days. But he continued on, and eventually Dean’s body began to shake with quiet sobs, which turned into loud sobs, which finally turned into a plea to stop.John stopped, let the kid hang there for a second before helping him stand. Dean immediately launched himself back into his father’s lap, wrapped his arms around John’s neck, cried quietly into the strong shoulder.“You’re okay, kiddo,” John soothed.“M’sorry,” Dean said, struggling to get the words out coherently.For what? John wanted to ask, but he said, “Next time, discuss it with me before you tell your brother his deepest darkest secret that we’ve been withholding from him for months, alright?”He was delighted to hear Dean snort. “Yessir.”“Good boy.”The bathroom door opened and Dean scrambled to his feet, allowed John to ease his boxers up over his sore behind. Sam, however, had already taken in the damage. John knew this because the boy was practically shooting blades out of his eyes.“Go get ready for bed, Dean-o.”Dean quickly disappeared into the bathroom.  
“Abusive much?” Sam asked mildly, dropping into the bed and pushing John off the edge with a large foot.John quirked an eyebrow, wondering when his youngest son’s testicles had suddenly become armored with steel. He stood and moved to the front of the bed, cocked his head and observed the kid.“What?” Sam asked. “No retort? No threats?”John snorted incredulously. “I’ve got plenty of both, Sammy boy. I’m just too busy wondering what’s gotten into you.”“Nothin’. Tired. Wanna go to sleep.”“You’re okay?” John asked. He put a hand in Sam’s soft hair. The boy nodded, his eyes drooping. “I love you, you know.”Sam peered at him blearily. “I know, Dad. And you’re not going to kill me because you’re not going to let me turn evil. Because somehow one man can control all matters of the supernatural.”“Sam...”“I’m sorry, okay?” the boy snapped, frustrated. “I’m trying not to be sarcastic. I just...I need to be alone for a while. Can I be alone for a while?”John swallowed, removed his hand from his son’s hair. “Sure, Sam. You want Dean to share with me?”“Please?” John nodded and turned away, only to have Sam snatch his hand up, tug him back. “Dad...” The boy let go of his hand, lifted his long muscled arms towards his father, and tried not to make eye contact. John acquiesced, sitting down on the edge of the bed and drawing the kid into his arms. “I know you’ll try your best,” Sam mumbled. John nodded into his son’s neck and then the moment was over. Sam pulled away and John reluctantly let him go.“We’ll get waffles in the morning, okay?”“Sure, Dad,” Sam agreed. He turned onto his side, towards the wall. “Night.”John fell asleep thirty minutes later with Dean’s head tucked against his shoulder, feeling slightly better about the day.____________________________________________Dean rolled over onto his back, hissed, and quickly moved onto his side. He opened his eyes - the motel alarm clock said it was noon. Jesus.  
Sam’s bed was empty, sheets strewn down the sides of the mattress, pillows dented from Sam’s head. Dean listened carefully, but he couldn’t hear any movement in the bathroom.His stomach growled. Oh shit, he was so hungry. That was where Sam must have gone - to get some breakfast. Mmm...but Dad had said something about waffles last night. Oh, God. Waffles. Dean so wanted waffles.“Dad, wake up.”Dean quickly shifted over onto his other side, wincing when his bottom touched the mattress again. Dad was sleeping pretty peacefully and Dean kind of didn’t want to wake him up. Dad never slept well anymore.Dean sighed, rolled over onto his stomach.He yelped when a large hand came to rest firmly on the small of his back.“Stop wriggling around,” Dad mumbled, though he peeked out at Dean through heavy lids and gave the boy a slight sleepy smile.“Dude...Dad...it’s totally waffle time.”Dad chuckled, a sound that rumbled low and rough from sleep. “Is it, now?”“Yeah, I think Sammy already went out for breakfast, but he can just watch us eat. Right?”“Mmm...” Dad replied noncommittally. Then, “Is Sam not here?”“I don’t think so.” Dean wriggled out from underneath his father’s palm, swinging his legs to the floor. “He was probably just really hungry. Don’t let him confound you with his saint-like morals, Dad. Sammy’s a ravenous beast on the inside.”“When have I ever confused your brother for a saint?” Dad asked, lips upturned. He buried his face in the pillow. “Go get ready then, kid. We’ll go get some waffles.”Dude, I’m totally going to have blueberry syrup this time, Dean thought as he walked stiffly to the bathroom. He turned the shower, stripped off his T-shirt, then his boxers. He caught a glimpse of his ass in the mirror before it started fogging up and grimaced. No wonder that shit still hurt.The job was getting to him, he realized as the hot water pounded down on his skin. And it was more than a little pathetic that he had to coerce his father into spanking the guilt out of him by claiming the same one-dimensional badness that a 5-year-old would.It hadn’t been about Sam. Well...it had been a little about Sam, of course.Dean was always feeling a little guilty about Sam, no matter what was or   
wasn’t happening. Mainly it was because Dean had shot and killed two people yesterday. There had been a little voice in his head telling him he was a very bad man even if he had done it for the right reasons and the little voice had a big hand that had twisted and squeezed Dean’s innards like they were nothing more than play-doh. But it was okay now...Dean was going to have waffles. With blueberry syrup. And it was going to be awesome.He wrapped a towel around his waist, left the bathroom. Dad was still in bed as Dean started fishing through his duffel for clothes. Then he stopped. Something was wrong with this picture.Dean’s duffel was next to the dresser. Dad’s duffel was beside Dean’s duffel...with a glaring empty space between.“Shit!” Dean cursed, throwing his towel down so he could yank on a pair of jeans. “Motherfuckin’...” His eyes welled up when the rough denim scraped over his sore ass.“Dean? What’s wrong?”Dad was up now, alert.“Sam’s duffel is gone,” Dean told him. Dad’s eyes widened, and Dean watched as Dad rushed to the window. “The car still there?”“Yeah, it’s still there,” Dad said. “But there’s some guy looking pretty angry and talking to some cops a couple of parking spaces down. In an empty parking space. Waving some keys around...”Dean opened the door and ducked his head out just in time to hear said guy yell, “My car was fuckin’ stolen and I wanna know what you assholes are gonna do about it!”Dean closed the door, sighed, and looked to Dad. “Did you teach him howto steal cars or was that me?”“I taught you, you taught him.”“That means we’re both idiots.”“I’ll call Ellen,” Dad grunted, pulling on his own jeans.“I still want waffles,” Dean told his father. Sam wasn’t going to ruin his waffles and blueberry syrup. Little pain in the ass. What if he got himself hurt? Dean shook his head, willing the worry to go away. “And I want beer. I want waffles and beer.”But he felt that hand again, squeezing, twisting, sculpting his internal organs into horrible and uncommon shapes.All he really wanted to do was find Sam.


	12. Chapter 12

It took a lot of doe-eyed looks and near-pouting to get Ellen to bend to Sam’s will, but eventually she agreed to keep his whereabouts, both present and future, a secret.“Your daddy and your brother are frantic,” she’d told him, her eyes speaking in a simultaneous tone of disapproval and concern - an expression Sam had only ever seen in the eyes of mothers of temporary friends.“Ellen...I just...this is something I have to do. By myself.”“Couldn’t you just call and tell them that?”An abrupt laugh had escaped Sam. At Ellen’s somewhat offended expression, the boy had slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he apologized, his eyes sincere. “It’s just...Ellen, you’ve met my father.”Ellen had snorted. “You’ll find Ash in the back, sweetheart.”Which had led Sam here: Lafayette, Indiana. Hometown of the late Scott Kerry, a guy who had once upon a time obsessively drawn yellow eyes and taped them to the back of his closet. Sam’s skin tingled and numbed as if it were being teased with ice. This kid...his dad had said he’d been a good kid, but had become increasingly depressed and paranoid about a year ago.Paranoid, Sam snorted.“A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what’s going on,” he quoted under his breath, closing the closet doors. William S. Burroughs. 20th Century Lit. It was times like these when Sam missed his days of higher education.He once again gave his condolences to Scott’s father along with a gracious goodbye and a good firm handshake. He made eye contact, feeling himself wither a little at the despair in the man’s eyes. This man seemed ruined and non functioning. Like he never left this little house now that his son was dead, stabbed to death in a parking lot after a therapy appointment.As he got in his stolen car, Sam wondered not for the first time if his own father would be just as destitute in this situation, if Sam were dead. Sam felt like maybe he would, but it didn’t make any sense to him. Dad had told Dean to kill Sam. If Dad had never died he probably would have killed Sam himself, maybe felt some kind of aching pain while doing it...but he would get the job done. Because eventually Sam wouldn’t be Sam anymore, he would just be another evil sonuvabitch that needed to be wasted for the greater good.Sam suspected that Dad would be relieved, though, if Sam were to die now like Scott Kerry had died. If Sam were to be stabbed to death in a   
freak parking lot murder, then Dad couldn’t blame himself because he wouldn’t have been there to protect Sam. And there was no way that he could have been, because Sam had run off and sworn everyone he’d met up with to the utmost secrecy.Then Sam thought of Dean and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Dean wouldn’t be relieved. Dean would go through his entire life haunted by the sudden death of his little brother, feeling an extortionate amount of guilt because Dean was supposed to look out for Sam, always, for the rest of his life. Because Dad had said so when Dean was four - because Dean’s job hadn’t been drying the dishes after Daddy washed them, or picking up after himself. Dean’s job had been to raise and protect Sam.And his brother didn’t know anything else but what he’d been reared to do.Goddamn Dad.Sam shook his head and sighed. Dad was trying. Sam knew that, he really did. He knew because Dad hadn’t left them, yet. He’d stayed, he’d kept them in sight, he’d handled the majority of the hustling and bought their food for them, even throwing in some dessert for Dean now and then just to see that perky look Dean would get - when his eyes would light up and his smile would glow before turning almost visceral, and then Dean would be tearing into the ice cream or cake or pie. And Dad would look happy and self-satisfied behind a mug of coffee, trying to hide it from both boys who knew the look was there, anyway.But the bastard had still kept this shit from Sam, had told Dean to keep it from Sam, so he hadn’t changed all that much, really. He still thought Sam was someone who couldn’t handle the truth, regarded Sam as too much of a child to handle the reality of his own situation. And Sam could handle it. He was going to handle it.That’s why Sam was turning into this motel parking lot and parking his car and getting out of his car. He was going to go into that motel room and go to sleep, and then he was going to pay a visit to Scott Kerry’s therapist. Sam was going to find out what the hell was going on without Dad or Dean.But first he needed to find out who was following him.He swung around and grabbed her and threw against the motel wall, snarling a demand of who she was and who she thought she was and why the hell was she following him?“Oh, God,” she squeaked, holding her tiny hands up defensively. “Don’t hurt me. It’s just...you’re in danger!”An hour later, Sam decided that he really liked Ava Wilson. She was cute as a button and neurotic as hell - and she was in the same psychic boat   
as Sam. She’d also been able to recite, in nearly excruciating detail, how he’d died in her vision. These were all extremely good qualities to have, in Sam’s opinion. Except for the psychic part, that is. Ava could go evil, too. And then she wouldn’t be Ava anymore.For the thousandth time in the past 96 hours, Sam resisted the urge to shudder. He’d known that going evil was a possibility for quite some time,but he hadn’t considered that possibility real until Dean had related Dad’s dying words. There was something in the idea that his own father had acknowledged that Sam could become a bad thing - a bad enough thing that Dean would have to kill him - that made this entire situation far too irrefutable.“You okay?” Ava asked, touching his arm.“Uh, yeah,” Sam lied. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He paused, considered her for a moment. He wasn’t really used to pulling a lot of shit off on his own...and breaking into a therapist’s office and stealing things? That could be a two man, er, person job. Yeah, he decided. She’ll do. “Hey. You wanna help me do something?”______________________“Yeah...of course...” Dad was talking into his cell phone, steering the car with one hand. Dean sat in the passenger seat with a full carton of McDonalds fries in his lap watching Dad’s expression intently. “Oh, that’s great. Thanks, Ellen...We sure will. Bye.” Dad snapped the phone shut with one hand. “He’s in Lafayette, Indiana. If we drive straight through the night, we should be able to be there tomorrow afternoon.”Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’m gonna kill that kid.”Dad snorted. “Get in line.” There was a pause as Dean shifted, looked out the window at the night sky. Then Dad said, “Dean...eat your fries.”“M’not hungry.” Shit. That had sounded sullen as hell. He cleared his throat, then added, “...sir.”“I don’t care if you’re not hungry,” Dad told him, his voice sounding like it was nearing the edge of irritation. “You haven’t eaten in a long while. Now eat.”“But-”“That’s an order.”“It’s not like they’re healthy or anything,” Dean grumbled in protest, and was immediately horrified at himself for two reasons: (1) He’d just argued after being given an order, and (2) He’d just discredited french fries, his absolute favorite vegetable ever, as being “unhealthy.” Dean didn’t even believe in healthy food. That shit was so far outside his moral compass...  
“Dean Winchester.” Full name. Warning. Shit.“We have to drive straight through. You can’t pull over,” Dean told him. Oh shit. He shifted in his seat to remind himself that there was still a dull lingering pain in his ass from days ago, that this was nowhere near the right time to get in trouble again. Act pitiful, he told himself. Dad falls for that shit these days. “M’sorry, Dad. I’ll eat. M’not thinkin’ straight is all.”Dad ran a tired hand over his face, looked over for a moment to watch Dean stuff a fry in his mouth. He didn’t say anything. That usually wasn’t a good thing.“M’I in trouble?”“We’re going to have to get gas pretty soon,” Dad said. “And we’re going to have to switch seats in a few hours. How would we do those things without pulling over?”Shit.“We can’t,” Dean said, resigned.“Keep eating, Dean.” Dean stuffed a few more fries into his mouth and chewed. He never thought his favorite vegetable could be so unappetizing. Dad asked, “How’s the butt, kid?”Dean was glad it was dark. Dad couldn’t see him turn red when it was dark. “Dad!”“Answer.”“It’s fine,” Dean mumbled.“Doesn’t hurt?” Dad sounded skeptical.“A little,” Dean replied. Maybe he should have claimed excruciating pain. What with Dad’s recent bout of girl-isms, sympathy might very well get him out of another spanking.“If it still hurts, why would you push?”“M’not thinkin’ straight.”“That’s because you’re hungry and tired and you’ve got your head all wound up with worry over Sam. You finish those fries and then I want you sleeping. I’ll wake you up when you need to drive, okay?”“Yes sir.”“And don’t think that pitiful act works with me. You’re not that kid.”Dean snorted. “Yes sir.”  
They made it to Lafayette by noon the next day. This was record time and could be attributed to Dean driving like a maniac whenever he was sure Dad had drifted off to sleep.“Wow,” Dad commented dryly, looking at the Welcome to Lafayette sign and then at the car’s clock. “One might think we had been driving far too recklessly.” Dean had grinned cockily and Dad hadn’t said anything else about it, so it was all good.It took them another three hours of scoping out motels to finally find Sam. They spotted him through a window and breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.“Thank God,” they muttered in unison. Then they saw the girl.Dean chuckled. “Oh, Sammy. Four days away from us and he’s already gettin’ some.”Dad rolled his eyes. “I’m going to park the car. You’re going to go get your brother.”“Why don’t you-”“He’s got a girl, Dean. I’m not going to embarrass him in front of a girl.”Dean wanted to point out that during his adolescence Dad had never failed to embarrass him in front of girls, but he wisely kept his mouth shut and got out of the car. Dad drove off to find an out-of-the-way place to park.Dean took a breath before knocking. He needed to settle his nerves. Swallow his anger. If Dad was big enough to not embarrass Sam in front of his new lady friend, then Dean should be, too. Then again, Dad wasn’t even confronting the situation. He probably couldn’t. The coward.Sam opened the door a crack, just enough so that Dean could make out the apologetic eyes.“Sammy,” Dean grunted. “Those eyes would only work on me if I were gay or a girl. Now while that might well be an accurate description of you...” He trailed off. Sam didn’t open the door, just stood there looking nervous. Dean sighed and commanded as lightheartedly as possible,“Open the door, bitch.”Sam huffed, but opened the door. “You’re a jerk,” he returned, his tone also lacking heat. Dean sidled inside. Sam’s female cohort looked at him with wide eyes.“Hi!” she chirped, sticking out a hand. “I’m Ava.”Well, this one was friendly. Dean accepted her hand, gave her a half-smile. “Dean.”  
“He’s my brother,” Sam said.“I actually kind of gathered that from your sibling-like repartee,” Ava replied.Dean looked questioningly at Sam.“Witty discourse,” Sam translated. Dean quirked an eyebrow. Sam clarified, “A series of quick and funny retorts.”“You didn’t have to translate wit, Sam. That’s a people word.”“But repartee and discourse aren’t?”“No. Those are robot words. Freakin’ college kids.”Ava giggled, and Sam forced a chuckle. Dean snapped a glare onto the kid, watched as the chuckle turned into a cough, then a clearing of the throat.“So, uh...where’s Dad?” Sam asked, shifting his feet.“Out in the car. Waiting for us.”Sam’s face went pale. Good, Dean thought. He should be scared.“I wanna meet your Dad!” Ava piped up, obviously not sensing the familial tension in the room. Dean bit back a laugh as Sam turned to her with an expression which clearly indicated that he thought she was insane. “What?” the girl asked, deflated. “You don’t think it’s fun to see the two generations together? I wanna meet the man who spawned you, Sam.”Dean actually did laugh this time. He regarded Ava with a fond gaze. “I like her, Sam. She’s quirky. How’d you two meet, anyway?”“She saw me die in a dream and tracked me down to warn me,” Sam replied dryly.Dean’s eyes widened. “You mean...” He looked to Ava. “You’re a psychic kid, too?”Ava flinched at the word. “I mean like...according to Sam. And apparently you. I don’t see how having a couple of dreams where people die, only to find out these people are real people who died in the exact same way I dreamt about, makes me a psychic.”The words came out squeaky and fast and jumbled and Dean looked to Sam again.“It’s hard to process such news after less than a day,” Sam supplied. Dean nodded his head.  
“Well...I hope you guys had good fun bonding over your mutual freak abilities. I’m sorry, Ava, but Sammy here needs to come home and get killed now.”Sam’s face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment and he snapped, “I’m not going anywhere, Dean. I don’t know all I need to know and I’m damn well going to figure it out myself, because apparently you and Dad can’t trust me enough to handle information that directly affects me.”Dean let out a sigh, a sigh that left his mouth ragged from barely restrained anger. The little brat. They’d been looking for the kid for four days! Dean had hardly eaten or slept and neither had Dad and they were tired and worried and more than a little hungry, and Sam didn’t even seem to give that little fact a single thought.He wanted to hit the kid. He really did.But he didn’t have to, because Ava punched Sam in the arm and Sam squawked and looked down at her in surprise.She let out a squeak and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god. I don’t know why I just did that. Sam...I’m so sorry! You just...you’re really irritating!”Sam’s mouth dropped open and he got this look on his face like he was trying to process that statement. “Ava...what did I do to irritate you?”“I don’t know! I just got really irritated with you all of a sudden! I can’t explain it!”Dean watched as Sam’s face blossomed into comprehension. He was a little weirded out when his little brother looked at him like he was the answer.“Ava, do you still feel it?”“A little! It kind of just...surged right then. Like it was really strong. Is that really weird? I promise I’m not schizophrenic!”“I don’t think you’re schizophrenic,” Sam assured her. “It’s just...the feeling. Does it have a direction? Like...does it feel like it’s pulling somewhere?”Ava was silent and she closed her eyes as she concentrated. Goddamnit. All Dean wanted to do was kill Sam, eat some food, and sleep for a few days. But no...Ava’s eyes popped open, her jaw went slack, and her finger rose to point at Dean.“Oh my god! It’s you!”  
“What the-” Dean started to snap, but was cut off by the window exploding and the wall steaming with a bullet hole. “Shit...”Sam pushed Ava to the ground, covering her with his body. Dean dropped, and crawled as another shot rang out, shoving his brother and the girl down and against the wall, guarding them with his own body.A bullet almost hit Sam’s head anyway and Dean growled, shoved his brother’s head down as far as he could.The shots stopped a short time later, but they stayed down. Protocol. Whoever this bastard was he might just be lulling them into a false sense of security. They had to wait it out. They had to be sure.Dean sighed, hoped that Dad was okay. He kept his hand on Sam’s head, kept his body pressed against Sam’s body. Felt the panic and adrenaline in his brother’s fast breathing. This was the only way Dean managed to keep himself convinced that Sam was still there.______________________When John Winchester came to, he was already berating himself for not following his own advice. Eating and sleeping were important things to do while you were drowning in a tide of anxiety over your missing 23-year-old. Because when you didn’t eat or sleep, Gordon Walker could easily get the drop on you, like he’d gotten the drop on John, whose circulation was being cut off in his legs and arms from the ropes wound tightly around them.And his head kinda hurt like hell.“Son of a cock sucking whore,” he rasped, struggling in the chair.“Don’t you talk ‘bout my mama like that,” Walker’s voice came from behind him.“Oh, please,” John grumbled. “Don’t play up the black thing, Walker.”Gordon chuckled and the sound was cold and malicious, but genuinely amused. John craned his neck to see the man creeping around him, all quiet as hell. Finally, Gordon walked into John’s direct line of sight and grinned.“Back from the dead, are we?”“Old news.”“I don’t want you to think I like you, Johnny. I would have re-killed you immediately, but I need you here to lure Sammy in...seeing as how you so adeptly ceased my earlier attempt.”It’s John, John thought. And it’s Sam to you.  
“Why are you talking like that, Gordon?”“Like what?” Gordon asked, his smile turning patronizing.“Like you’re some kind of evil mastermind. Adeptly. Ceased. Earlier attempt. You’re talking about your actions like you’re reading them from a book written just about you. You think too much of yourself.”“I’m not evil, Johnny,” Gordon told him. “You know I’m not evil. I don’t let emotions get in the way of the job...I thought you and I saw eye to eye on that, but alas...”“I apologize that I can’t see the good in a man who just tried to shoot down my kids.”“Under the circumstances...apology accepted.”John sighed. Gordon chuckled, patted him roughly on the shoulder. Then he pulled out John’s phone and started pressing buttons.“The hell are you doing?” John demanded.“Dialing Sammy...awwww.” Gordon held the phone in front of John’s face,pointed to the picture of Sam in the contact list. “That’s cute. You have a picture of him looking bitchy. I must say, I far prefer Dean. There’s a kid with his head on the job.”John blinked, and not for the first time in his life, he wished that he had super strength so he could just break out of these ropes and beat a guy to death. This fantasy had involved several different individuals over the years...but clearly Gordon Walker deserved it more than most.“Now, you’re going to tell Sam to meet you at this address...I suggest you don’t tell him the truth, because I’m going to have this gun to your head.” Gordon pulled out a handgun, waved it in John’s face. Funky town, John remembered. Goddamnit, Dean. Why did it have to be such a stupid word?He briefly considered refusing, telling Gordon to just shoot the fuck out of him and not think twice about it because there was no way in hell he was going to help the motherfucker trap his boys...but then he thought of Dean, thought of Hell, thought of Dean in Hell...for John. Dean would be going to Hell because he had been so desperate to get John out. And Sammy...John needed to stick around and protect Sammy from crazy shit like Gordon Walker. He had to let the boys try.“You’re going to have to write the address down,” John told Gordon. “I’m not going to remember it.”An hour later, Gordon had John gagged. He also had two trip wires set up,a surefire way to blow up both of John’s children. And John was really regretting his decision.  
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Walker,” he screamed through the bandana. But it was muffled, quiet, and incoherent. Gordon just raised an eyebrow at him, put a finger to his lips.“Shhh...I hear them,” he whispered. “Don’t you hear them?”And sure enough John heard the sound of a lock being picked. His heart plummeted. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.And then there was an explosion. It resounded in John’s ears. He kept hearing it. Over and over and-“That was only the first one,” Gordon reminded him, probably noting the way John was struggling to hold back his tears of panic and grief.Then came the second one. Oh, God. They were dead. Sam. Dean. Dead. He screamed into the gag, struggled against the chair. He was going to rip that fucker apart. He was going to weight him down on a table, mutilate his body, pierce big gaping holes in him, ease the skin off his flesh, make sure he felt every aching bloody moment of pain...Gordon disappeared to see the remains.John’s anger faded into something less functional, something more like a paralyzing numbness.Then he heard the scuffle. Voices. Sam and Dean. Alive.He fought to get out of the chair, he needed to help them, he needed to make sure Gordon didn’t overpower them...Dean was tired and hungry and worn out.It took like five minutes, but his boys stumbled in. Sam’s hand was clasped around Dean’s arm, like he was trying to hold the older boy up. They both had blood on their faces, but John could see the big gash on the side of Dean’s head as the boy leaned down to untie his father’s ankles while Sam attended to his wrists.Then John was up and attempting to get them both in his arms - which was difficult, it really ended up being a group hug, so he let them go and held them both individually, causing Sam to lightheartedly complain that he couldn’t breathe. Dean, however, was just woozy, and he started falling asleep on his father’s shoulder.“Gordon hit him over the head with a rifle,” Sam said, looking at Dean with obvious concern. “Oh, and we totally need to get out of here. Like...now.”They were already at the Impala when they heard the sirens.__________________________  
Sam sat on the bed closest to the motel door. This was Dad’s bed. And when Dad wasn’t there, it was Dean’s bed. When they had walked into the room, Dad had immediately ordered Sam to sit on this particular bed and told him that unless he really really needed to use the bathroom, he was under no circumstances to move. Sam was abundantly aware that this did not bode well.Then Dad had settled Dean on the other bed, put an ice pack to the older boy’s head, and asked him a few inane questions which Dean answered adequately.“Alright, you can go to sleep,” Dad told him, strong hands bodily shifting his oldest son to a horizontal position. “I’m gonna wake you in an hour, though. Okay, buddy?”“‘Kay, Da’,” was all Dean managed to slur before falling dead asleep. Sam watched as his father put a hand through Dean’s hair, his touch gentle and his expression fond. And Sam felt an emotion that caught him completely off-guard.Was that guilt? No...it couldn’t be guilt. He did not feel guilty for leaving them for four days. That was their own doing. They should have...well, okay. Maybe he felt a little guilty. But it wasn’t all guilt. It didn’t feel terrible like guilt felt terrible, but it ached kind of like guilt ached.Shit. It was longing, Sam realized as he watched his father cover his brother up. He swallowed. Stupid fucking near death experiences...making him feel all of five years old again.“Samuel.” Dad’s voice was low and firm and Sam had to fight to keep from visibly gulping.“Yes sir?”“You’re not going to be sleeping alone again for quite some time.”Sam planted his eyes on the ugly bedspread. “Yes sir.”“I’m too worn out to deal with you tonight. You’ll get your consequences tomorrow.”Sam snapped his head up, looked at his father with wide eyes. “Dad...you’re going to make me wait?” Anticipation was the worst part, Sam knew.Dad pinched the bridge of his nose, something he often did when he was tired, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam wasn’t all too surprised when he was tugged over his father’s lap, or when he got the 23 stinging swats over the seat of his jeans, each one not really a consequence, but a promise of something much worse to come.“Did that make you feel better?” Dad asked.  
Sam squirmed. “No,” he mumbled, wincing when Dad bodily moved him from his lap back to the bed. “M’sorry.” He rested his head on Dad’s shoulder only to hear the man sigh. It was only a few seconds before Dad abruptly pushed him down onto the bed, worked the shoes off his feet like he had done when Sam was a kid. Sam wondered if this is what Dean felt when confronted with Dad’s disappointment, this lonely ache nestling in his rib cage. “Dad...”“Go to sleep, Sam.”“Dad, please...” And to his horror, tears started trickling out of his eyes. Dad looked back at him, his face softening. No, no...Sam thought. This isn’t...this is not good. This is not what I want. Sam realized that he could no longer legitimately blame his father for treating him like a child...because Sam was the one holding his arms out to be held, and clinging when Dad gave in to the unspoken demand. Sam was the one burrowing his face into Dad’s neck and sobbing, and feeling comfort when Dad’s hand ran up and down his back. Sam was the one feeling reassured by Dad’s mumbles, half of them incoherent.Dad was the one who did these things for Sam. He didn’t do them before,when it was age appropriate...but at the moment, Sam felt he could let that go. Dad was the one who pulled the covers over Sam, stroked his hair until he closed his eyes. Dad was the one who watched with exhausted eyes as both of his sons slept, their slumber deep and without dreams.


	13. Chapter 13

“...shower...lightheaded...don’t want to...Dad!”Sam opened a pair of groggy eyes, curious as to what had awoken him. A few moments later he understood it to be Dean, who was in the bathroom with Dad. They had left the door wide open and Sam blinked, rubbed his eyes, and shifted to his side in the bed, wondering if this act was a deliberate subversion of his sleep.The bathtub faucet was loud and odious, and the water thundered to the porcelain and rang in Sam’s ears. Dean’s mewls of objection were barely audible over the sound, but still coherent, and Sam, in his half-awake state, found them to be irritating as hell.“I stood up too fast. That was all. I can take a shower. I promise.”Jerk. Sam was in for an ass load of pain (literally) and Dean was complaining about a little bath? A relaxing dip in the tub? Seriously. You’d think his brother would have some compassion for his plight - you’d think Dean would do his best to make sure Dad was happy as a clam, as calm as a cucumber, as contentedly cliched as possible. Negative and negative equals negative. And in Sam’s case, negative was good. Negative was less. The less frustrated Dean made Dad, the less frustrated Dad would be with Sam, which would mean at the end of the day,Sam would be in less pain than he would be if these were positive factors. And in this case, positive wasn’t positive, positive was just more, and more was bad. It was like being HIV positive. It was like making that joke - I’m not just sure, I’m HIV positive. In other words, it was in bad taste.Sam blinked, wondered why the hell his train of thought wasn’t making any sense right now. The joke was in bad taste, but how the hell did that connect to anything else he’d just thought? Maybe this was just his mind’s way of pushing back the fear - easing it away with imbecilic rambling.The faucet turned off. Sam cringed and pulled the covers over his ears when he heard the string of swats barraging down on Dean’s undoubtedly naked ass. Jerk. He could at least think of Sam for three minutes instead of making mindless, obnoxious complaints about a little bath. Now Dad was angrier than he’d been ten minutes ago, and he could get angrier still, and all this anger? It would inevitably be taken out on Sam’s tender backside.Sam squirmed at the thought. He stopped and closed his eyes, tried to impress the feeling of his content ass in his brain. Maybe if he could conjure the memory up after his spanking of epic proportions, he would be able to push out the pain. It was possible, right?Like fuck it was. Sam buried his head into his pillow, a reticent moan of misery   
escaping his lips. The bathroom echoed the sounds of soft splashes, Dean disturbing the water while washing. Dean and Dad had a quiet argument about the washing of Dean’s hair, which ended in a one-sided agreement that Dad would do it.Sam shuddered. They were almost done. Maybe he could pretend to be asleep? No, Dad might wake him up. Maybe he could pretend to be dead. He glanced towards the motel door. He could sneak out really quick. He’d done it before...Sam sighed, knowing that he wasn’t that kid. Sam didn’t run away from problems. He ran towards them - which was why he was in this mess in the first place.But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hide under the covers like a trepid five-year-old. And that’s exactly what he did.________________“You’re all done, kiddo,” John said. Dean climbed out of the tub. John wrapped him in a towel and for the first time all morning, the boy didn’t complain about the paternal ministrations. “I’m cranky,” Dean told him, his voice tinged with gruff apology. “I got beaned in the head with a rifle.”John looked at his son, at the dark circles under the green eyes, the too pale skin, the T-shirt that was looser than it had been five days ago. “It’s okay, Dean.I want you take some Tylenol and lay down while I deal with Sammy.” He grabbed another towel, attacked Dean’s hair.“M’hungry. Can’t I go out for some food?”“I wouldn’t let you bathe alone, Dean. Why would I let you drive the car?”Dean bit his bottom lip, gnawed on it. He looked down at the ground and shifted his feet. “I don’t wanna listen.”Ah. “Put your headphones in. Close yours eyes. It’ll be like it’s not even happening.”“Except it will be,” the kid snapped and at the reproach in his father’s eyes, backed up a step. Then more softly, “We shoulda killed Gordon. My head hurts and it fuckin’ pisses me off.”  
“Watch your mouth,” John half-heartedly scolded. He threw the towel onto the bathroom counter, trailed a few fingers through his kid’s damp hair. “I’ll go get us some food after I’m through with Sam, okay?”“I wanna go out.”“We’ll see.”“That means no.”“It means we’ll see.”“It always means no.”“Dean...” John rubbed a tired hand over his face. He knew his son was in pain...but this was going to be a hard enough morning as it was. The kid usually made things easier for him, not harder. And he really didn’t like things being harder. “I need you to behave for me today, okay? If you get through the day without incident, I’ll let you hustle some pool tonight.”The kid perked up. “Beer?”“If I think your head is better.”“Girls?”“If your head is better.”“Pie?”“If you’re extra special good,” John said, his voice lilting with mockery. Dean glared. John rolled his eyes. “You got beaned in the head with a rifle. I’m not gonna deny you pie.”The kid’s smile was freakin’ scintillating. “Thanks, Dad.”John snorted, sent the kid out the open door with a playful swat to the towel-clad behind. Dean’s step was slightly more springy at the thought of pie and girls and beer and John followed him out, walked past him as the boy dropped his towel and started dressing.Sam was a giant lump under the covers. John found himself caught between amusement and dismay - his Sammy hadn’t grown up all that much.   
“Samuel, come out,” he ordered softly. He received no movement or verbal response in return and he sighed, reached over, and yanked the covers halfway off the bed to find a pair of winsome eyes blinking tiredly back at him.“I don’t want a spanking,” Sam moaned.Dean snorted incredulously. John turned a glare on him to the find the boy had already managed to tug his clothes on.“I’m going, I’m going...” Dean assured him, holding up his cell phone and a pair of earphones, putting on a show for his father of plugging the latter into the former. John watched with sharp eyes as Dean crawled back into his own bed, stuffed the earphones in his ears, and turned on his side to face the wall.John turned back to Sam, who was looking positively angelic at this point. “Up.”“Dad...” came the plea.“I’m not telling you again.”The boy obeyed, though he was painstakingly slow about it. John led him over to the end of the bed, sat himself down, drew his son between his knees.“Why?” was all he asked.“I took off on you and Dean,” the boy mumbled, not meeting his father’s gaze. John was almost satisfied with this response when Sam added, “But I was justified.”“The Hell you were,” John growled.“I was,” Sam insisted. “I needed to find out more about what the hell was going on with my life. And you wouldn’t tell me shit.”“You didn’t even ask. You just left,” John reminded him, feeling more irritated by the second.“You never tell me anything. Are you trying to say you would have?”“Maybe I would have. Maybe I wouldn’t have. Either way, you weren’t justified. We don’t run out on each other in this family. Not anymore.” John reached up to unbutton Sam’s jeans, tugged them down. A quiet whimper emanated from the back of the kid’s throat when John slid down the threadbare briefs to join them, and again when he was tugged deftly over his father’s lap, long legs straying   
behind him stretched to ground, nose buried in the ugly comforter he’d slept under all through the night before. John wasn’t ready to begin, however. He just wanted the kid where he could easily put a stop to any argumentative nonsense in response to what he was about to say next.“You’re not going to sleep alone until I know I can trust you to stay put,” John reminded him. “Yes sir.” Sam’s voice was meek and compliant and tinged with anxiety.“You’re going to stay in sight for the next two weeks. You so much as wander behind a tree without asking permission, you’re gonna be right back in this position again.”“What?” Sam squeaked.“You heard me.”“What if I have to go to the bathroom?”“Diner bathrooms, you tell me or Dean. Rest stop bathrooms, one of us will escort you. Motel bathrooms, you have free reign.”“I’m 23! I don’t have to-”John’s hand thundered down on Sam’s left buttock and the boy cried out, inadvertently kicked out with a surprised leg. John removed his hand, lifted a brow at the pink hand-print he’d left behind.“What was that, little boy?”“It’s stupid,” the kid told him through gritted teeth, then yelled out once more when John’s hand left an equally pink hand-print on his right buttock. “If you think this oppression is going to do anything but drive me further away-” Sam’s contention quickly shifted into a series of squeals and swears as John’s hard hand swung down a dozen times. Sam dug his fingers into the comforter, tried to crawl out of his father’s lap, only to have John’s hand pin him even more firmly down, shifting the boy in his lap to get a better aim.“You better settle down. We haven’t even started yet.” When Sam didn’t reply, John asked, “You wanna leave us?”Sam snorted. “Like you’d let me.”“I wouldn’t,” the older hunter agreed. “Dean wouldn’t, either. But I’m not asking   
you about what we’ll let you do. I’m asking what you want to do. Do you want to leave us?”Sam was silent for a long time. John waited, listened to his son’s tremulous breathing, felt the boy fidget in his lap. He wondered what the kid was waiting for, wondered why it was so hard for his son just to admit that he needed his family. Sam had been full of tacit confessions the night before when he had clung to John, reticent tears spilling from his eyes. But now? Now that he was laying exposed over his father’s knee, about to suffer the consequences for his actions, the kid couldn’t bring himself to spit out the words. It felt like minutes had passed before Sam finally said, “No.”“Why not?” John asked.The boy took another moment before he admitted, “I miss you when you’re not there.”“How would you have felt if you had woken up this morning to find your brother and me gone? Our shit gone. The car gone. Just you in this room, because we had left you without warning.”It took maybe half a minute to hear Sam’s voice again, soft and remorseful, “M’sorry, Dad.”“You should be, Sam,” John told him. “Because that shit fucking hurts.”With that, John lit in. His hand was a blur as it flurried down onto Sam’s already pink bottom. The boy yelled once before breaking down into sobs. His giant legs kicked out, his socked feet scraped the motel carpet. He tried to plead with John through his sobs, but he choked on both, clutching the bedspread in white-knuckled fists as his father turned his sorry backside a shade of deep cherry red,but still refused to stop. “M’sorry!...sto...no...Dad,p-please!” Sam was almost incoherent. John was nearly through when he heard the boy swallow thickly and beseech in a trembling voice, “Dad...please...Daddy...”Shit. John stopped, his hand in midair, his son sobbing brokenly over his legs. Concerned that he had gone too far, he ran a practiced eye over the damage - it was really no worse than he’d given Dean over a far lesser offense. But Sam wasn’t Dean and John knew that, always had known that. Sam wasn’t one to take pain without question or protest, because Sam was usually pretty aware of just how much he deserved.John rested his hand on Sam’s shaking back, rubbed gently. He blinked, feeling   
tired as hell. He really needed to sleep, but he had promised Dean food. His eyes drifted over to the older boy, who had his pillow over his head, his hands clutching his pillow where his ears were. Poor kid. Apparently music just wasn’t enough.“M’sorry,” Sam whimpered again.“It’s okay, Sammy,” John absently soothed. “You’re forgiven, okay?”“M’...yessir...m’sorry...”He let his youngest have a few more minutes, mildly reflecting that the boy probably wouldn’t take it this hard if he were spanked with some frequency in the future. John, of course, hoped it wouldn’t come to that.“You ready to get up, baby?”Sam slid off his father’s lap, climbed to his feet. He looked at John, sniffling, his eyes dappled with tears like windows with rain. John reached down to pull the boy’s underwear back up, but when the thin, soft fabric came into contact with his delicate rear, Sam made a noise like a dying cat and pulled the garments back down to his knees. The boy flopped down onto the bed on his stomach, his red bottom exposed and glowing, his face buried in a pillow and John listened as the lamentable sobs started back up again.John sighed, gently rested a hand on one of the boy’s huge feet, gripped it, shook it a little like he had when Sammy was five, when the small boy had thought such gestures by his daddy were hilarious.John stood up, sauntered over to the other bed, and pulled the pillow away from Dean’s head. Kid yanked the earphones from his ears, looked up at his father worriedly. “Sammy okay?”“He’ll be fine. He’s just upset right now,” John replied, noting the way Dean’s face belied doubt when Sam’s cries unconsciously grew at the words. “Do you mind ordering pizza? Sammy’s in no shape to go out right now.” He tried to ignore the way that Dean studied his face, knowing the boy probably realized just how tired his old man was, but would never have the balls to point it out.“Sure...but tonight?”“Tonight there will be pie.”  
“And beer and girls?”“If your head’s better.”“Awesome,” Dean said, and waved his hands in protest when John ruffled his hair. Though he didn’t seem to mind so much when John dropped down next to him on the bed. The older hunter shut his eyes when he felt Dean lean against him, felt the vibration of Dean’s voice as the boy ordered enough food to feed a...well, granted, the Winchesters kind of were a small army. John was almost asleep when he heard the sniffle and the inquiry: “Dad?” He turned his head in Sam’s direction, took note that the boy had finally managed to brave the underwear. Sam blinked at him, looking young and sorrowful and needy. John swallowed his sigh, shifted out from underneath Dean, and was surprised when his oldest released a small moan of discontent.“M’sorry, buddy,” he said tiredly.Dean huffed. “Whatever. Who needs you, anyway?” But the kid was smirking, so John knew all was well.He settled next to Sam, drew the rumpled covers over the both of them.“Dean?” Sam asked, his voice scratchy. The boy turned onto his side so that he was facing towards his brother, sinking back into his father’s warm body.“Hmm?”“Call Ava. We didn’t call her last night. We were s’posed to call her. Tell her everything was alright. Remember?”John listened as Dean reassured Sam that Ava would be called and informed. He momentarily wondered who Ava was as his eyes dropped closed. He yawned against Sam’s shoulder, deciding that at least for the moment, he really didn’t care who Ava was. He just wanted to sleep. And then he wanted to go to a pool hall and drink beer, but not before buying Dean some pie. His last thought before drifting off was that Sam needed pie, too, or whatever Sam wanted. The post-spanking meal. A congratulations of sorts. Like for graduating, or for surviving a near-fatal plane crash. Either, or._____________________“Ava, it’s Dean. I know it’s like the fifth message or whatever but you’re not answering your phone. What’s the point of a phone if nobody answers it? Anyway, now that I’ve established that Sam and I are fine, it’s time for you to   
call back or pick up the phone and say, ‘Hi, Dean! I’m fine, too!’ in that perky little voice of yours. Do you feel my irritation now? Okay, Ava...call us back.”Dean snapped his phone shut for the fifth time and stuffed his fourth slice of pizza into his mouth. He hoped the girl was okay. Sammy would be wrecked if she weren’t...and, yeah, well, Dean was kind of fond of her, too. Except for that part where she could somehow feel his emotions...and that part where Sam somehow seemed to understand that she could. Dean knew that Sam knew something, had known something for quite some time...and the kid hadn’t explained anything yet.His eyes drifted over to the two large, slumbering lumps in the bed. He could make out just enough of Sam’s face under the mop of tousled hair to see that his brother’s cheeks still glinted with the stains of old tears. Dean rolled his eyes.Seriously. You’d have thought that Dad had been spanking the kid to death with the way he’d been caterwauling on...Dean had seen Sam stabbed, had seen his little brother’s bones twisted and broken, had seen the kid stitched up without any kind of anesthetic other than light beer. And Sam may have hissed in pain during these instances, may have blinked back a few unintentional tears, but he’d never sobbed himself into oblivion. Despite all Dean’s teasing, he was well aware that underneath all the sentiment and outpouring of girlish emotions that Sam was no pansy. Dean was,in fact, aware that his kid brother was probably tougher than Dean himself. Cut the probably. Sam was tougher than Dean. When it came down to it, down to death and loss and the end of everything they knew, Sam would survive, and Dean would self-destruct.The bed creaked and Dean looked over again to see Sam disentangling himself from Dad. Dad opened his eyes for a moment, but fell almost instantly back to sleep. Sam stood, stretched. Dean couldn’t stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the sight of his little brother’s choice of underwear.“Dude...what’s with the see-through briefs?”Sam yawned, looked down at the articles in question. “They were all I had that was clean. We need to do laundry.”“Why do you even own briefs?”“Jess liked ‘em.”Ah. Well...clearly Dean couldn’t mock that. “Girls have underwear preferences?”Sam rolled his eyes. “You would have known that had you ever taken the time to  
get to know a girl...did you call Ava?”Dean nodded. “Five times. She hasn’t answered.” He watched as Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly in his throat, the tell-tale Sam-Winchester-is-worried gulp.“She doesn’t call back in an hour, we go to her,” the kid said decisively. “M’gonna go take a shower.”An hour and a half later, the Winchesters had packed all their shit up, threw it in the Impala, and driven off into the steadily dying afternoon. Sam had managed to track down Ava’s address and Dad had commandeered the driver’s seat, ordering Dean to navigate as the youngest Winchester moaned and squirmed in the back seat. Sam’s ass, as the boy was unafraid to point out, was in a tremendous state of discomfort, which was Dad’s fault and even somehow Dean’s fault, but not at all Sam’s fault.“Fuckin’-”“So help me God, Samuel-”“He’s just worried about Ava, Dad.” Dean didn’t want an argument. Not now. He had the feeling that he already wasn’t getting pie, much less girls or beer, he didn’t want to deal with Dad and Sam bitching and moaning at each other to boot.Sam had told Dad all about Ava before they had gotten into the car, and Dad had looked intrigued, had inquired about the girl, had fallen silent in worried contemplation as the boys continued redialing the girl’s phone number and stuffing pizza into their mouths.“Sammy?” Dean said now. It was time to sound really naive. Get the kid to ‘fess up.“Yeah?”“What was with the thing when Ava hit you, then you told her to feel out where the emotion was coming from...and then she pointed to me?”“What?” Dad asked sharply.Dean craned his neck, watched Sam fidget in his seat.“Sometimes when you’re feeling something really strongly, I feel it, too.”“Isn’t that called elephantitis or something?”  
“Empathy...is the word I think you’re looking for. And yes, it has something to do with empathy, but I think it’s something else. Like...I’m empathic to you. And apparently Ava is, too.”“You failed to mention this before?” Dad demanded.“We had kind of a busy night last night, Dad,” Dean replied shortly.Dad ignored him. “Sam...how long have you been aware of this?”“Um, well...I’ve felt it a few times.”“Why the fuck didn’t you tell us?” Dad barked. Dean cringed, heard Sam straighten in the back. Dad...Dad didn’t really yell at them too much anymore. Yeah, sure, he made some quiet threats, but the yelling? That had dispersed along with his first life.“I didn’t know what it meant,” Sam mumbled.“Just because you don’t know what it means doesn’t mean you withhold it.” The words lashed out of Dad’s mouth like a whip.Sam let out an incredulous breath. “You withhold shit from me all the time. Why shouldn’t I do the same to you?”A snarl emitted from Dad’s mouth. “You’re gonna drop that tone if you wanna sit comfortable for the next month.”“Shut the fuck up, Dad.”Dad’s head whirled to Dean, who, to everyone’s surprise (especially Dean’s), had been the one to speak the words.“Excuse me?”“You’re not helping the situation...and he’s right. You withhold shit from him, so you shouldn’t be complaining. Sammy believes in fairness and he’s gonna continue believing in fairness no matter what you say or do.”“Thanks, Dean.”“You can shut the fuck up, too,” Dean told Sam. “You’re a little bitch for keeping that from me.”  
The Winchesters sat in fuming silence for the rest of the drive. It was dark when they got there, the lights in the little house were turned off. “Maybe she went on vacation?” Dean suggested.“Right before her wedding?” Sam asked, disbelieving.“Wedding?”“She’s engaged...I didn’t tell you that?”Dean shook his head. Sam wasn’t telling him a lot of things these days, it seemed. He watched as Dad opened the screen door and knocked, only to have the door creak open. The oldest Winchester looked back at his children and nodded, indicated that they should pull out their guns. And so they did.The smell hit them as soon as they walked into the house. Dean slipped on some blood on the kitchen floor.The body of a young man lay reclined in the bedroom, his blood still leaking from gaping wounds, staining the white sheets red. Flies buzzed.Dean looked at his white-faced brother, wanting to say something comforting, something that would make this okay. He wanted to maybe hug Sam, but that wasn’t really something he normally did. “Ava.” Sam’s voice was small and agonized and Dad put a hand on Sam’s back, any familial transgressions momentarily forgiven as the tall boy wavered on his feet, eyes stained in shock.“Ava,” Dean repeated the girl’s name. She wasn’t here. There was blood on the floor, on the walls, on her bed. Her dead lover’s eyes were still open.She didn’t seem real, now.“Ava.” Dean mouthed the name this time. He tried to remember her, what she’d looked like, how her voice had squeaked. He tried to form a picture of her in his mind.But he couldn’t see her through the haze of blood and decay and flies.“Dean.” Dad’s hand pushed him out of the room, out of the house, back into the car.The Winchesters drove in unsettled silence all the way out of Indiana.


	14. Chapter 14

Three days in Sandusky, Ohio and Dean Winchester was about to kill his little brother. No joke. If the brat said one more word in that snotty tone of his, Dean was going to pull out his gun and shoot the kid dead.But Sam didn’t say anything, he just glared at his sandwich, picking the sesame seeds off the bun with his good hand. He was okay about 72 hours ago. Stressed and desperate, and searching futilely for a girl he wasn’t going to find, but Dean could deal with that. It was hopeless, angry Sam he couldn’t tolerate.“Eat your food, Sammy.” Dad made the order sound like a suggestion and Sam looked up at their father with puppy dog eyes, just as he used to when he was five and an even pickier eater. “Sam...”“Yessir,” Sam grumbled. Dean watched as his little brother took a painfully small bite of his sandwich before swilling his beer. Sam caught Dean’s eye over the bottle and Dean almost winced when the blue-green eyes narrowed. “Stop staring at me, Dean.”“Nobody’s staring at you,” Dean replied, taking a sip of his own beer.“Dad, Dean’s staring at me.”Oh, for God’s sake.“Dean, stop staring at your brother.”Dad, Dean had noticed, had been surprisingly tolerant of Sam’s brattiness. There was something about losing a girl that resonated with his father, made him an extraordinarily understanding individual. And it seemed that in these little spats Sam and Dean had been getting into all day, Dad automatically took Sam’s side.Which just wasn’t cool at all, in Dean’s opinion.“M’not staring at him,” Dean groused, catching the eye of their now-regular waitress, Brooke, across the room. She smiled at him, winked, held up a finger to indicate that she would be a minute.“Make sure that you’re not,” Dad told him.“M’gonna get some ice cream, I think,” Dean replied, his eyes on Brooke’s pert ass as she walked to one of her other tables. He looked to Dad. “You want any Dad? Sammy? On me?”Regret flickered briefly over Dad’s face. Serves you right, Dean thought. Forgetting who the good son is.  
“That’s okay, buddy.”“It’s 25 degrees outside,” Sam said. “Who the hell eats ice cream when it’s 25 degrees outside?”“I do,” Dean told him.“That shows a supreme lack of common sense,” his little brother muttered, flicking a lone sesame seed across the table.Dean opened his mouth to make a decidedly quick and violent retort, but a cheery female voice interrupted him.“Can I getcha handsome fellas anything else?” Brooke. Oh sweet, pretty little Brooke. Sweet 35 and unmarried pretty, pretty little Brooke.“Dean’s the only one who wants something,” Sam told her, and Brooke looked at Sam, then at Sam’s plate which was hardly touched.“Was the sandwich bad, baby?” Her tone of voice indicated that if Sam, indeed, had found the sandwich to be not-quite-up-to-snuff that she would take this as a personal offense. Sam’s eyes widened.“Oh, no. It’s fine. Good, actually. Really good,” he babbled. He flashed her a charming smile. “I’m just not all that hungry, is all.”She visibly brightened. “You’ll be wanting a doggy bag then.”“Uh, no, that’s-”“He sure will, Brooke,” Dad interjected.Brooke grinned. “I sure love the way your Daddy takes charge.” She looked to Dean, who had been patiently awaiting her attention. “Now what can I get for you, Dean? Make it fast. I have a fifteen minute break I’m desperate to take.” She stressed the part about her break and Dean raised his eyebrows. Her eyes danced back at him, flickering quickly to the restroom, then back to him. Dean looked to Dad and Sam to find them locked in their glares. He cleared his throat in a not-so-subtle way.“Actually, you know, I don’t feel too good right now,” he replied in a voice that was a little too loud to be natural.“Oh, no,” she gasped, putting a rather excellently-timed hand to her mouth in apparent horror. “Was it the food? I’ll kill that chef...”  
“That’s okay, Brooke...I think I just, you know...don’t need any ice cream right now. You can take your break. I think I’m just going to...you know?”“Go to the bathroom?” Brooke asked, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and squeezing it none-too-maternally. “You just take care of yourself, sweetie. You can use the employee restroom if you like. It’s nice and clean and private. You can take as long as you need.”“Yes’m,” Dean agreed, though, to be honest, he wasn’t too stoked that anyone who could hear them was thinking he was discussing his apparent need to relieve his bowels with the waitress. “Thanks, Brooke.”“No problem, baby,” Brooke assured him, and she walked off, throwing him one last significant glance over her shoulder.“You’re not feeling well, Dean-o?” Dad asked, concerned. Seriously. The man didn’t even look suspicious. Though Sam obviously knew. He was rolling his eyes at Dean while Dad wasn’t looking and Dean seriously just wanted to hit the kid.“Uh, my stomach hurts, s’all, Dad. M’just...give me a little while?”“Can’t make it to the motel?”“Uh...nosir. M’sorry, I just...”“Go ahead, buddy. We’ll wait.”And Dean dashed gleefully off to the restroom without further preempt.______________________John dropped a thick stack of newspapers on Dean’s unsuspecting ass. Dean rolled over, the mattress squeaking under him, the newspapers falling across the comforter.“You’re going to comb through every single one of those before bed,” John told him. Dean stared at John with surprised green eyes. “And I mean comb, Dean. As in fine-toothed. None of that skimming shit you like to do.”“But I’m si-”“So help me God, if you tell me you’re sick...” John let the threat linger. He snapped his fingers to regain the boy’s attention when Dean shot a look at Sam. “You really think Sam had to tell me? How long have I been your father, Dean?   
How much of an idiot do you take me for?”“I don’t think you’re a-”“Then why in the fucking hell would you even entertain the idea that I fell for that badly-acted little show you put on in the diner?”“Because you-”“How long have I been your father, Dean? How many times have you seen me lie?”“Uh, a-”“How many times have you seen me lie badly?”“Never. But you-”John snorted incredulously. “You think I would have stopped you? I’m surprised you’ve gone this long.”Dean poked one of the newspapers disdainfully. “Then why-”“When have I ever tolerated lying from you?”“But it was-”“Take a girl out on a date next time, kid. Or at least wait ‘til she gets off work for the night, for chrissakes. Now get the fuck to work.”“Yessir.”Needless to say, John was in a perfectly foul mood. Three days. Three fucking days in Shithole Sandusky with nothing to do but hope another job would fall into their laps. And why were they here? Because Ava’s father lived three towns over, that’s why. And he had no news, hadn’t talked to his own daughter in about seven years, had three preteens running around his ankles and a cigarette perpetually hanging from his lips.And he was no help. Did John mention that the bastard was no help? Sam had managed to hold on to the threadbare remnants of his hope for about two hours after the visit. Then he’d gritted out that Dean should pull over lest he wanted Sam to piss all over his back seat and Dean had pulled over, but Sam hadn’t pissed. He’d screamed and hit his fist into the nearest tree, kept hitting said tree until his hand had bled and it had taken both John and Dean to pull the boy   
away and shove him back into the car.“Sam, get up. I want to look at your hand,” John said now. The boy was sprawled across the bed he would be sharing with his father, staring intently at the screen of his laptop.“It’s fine. You checked it this morning,” Sam replied, waving his bandaged hand in the air for his father to see.“Did that sound like a request to you, little boy?” John growled. Sam didn’t reply, just continued staring at the screen of his laptop, so John snapped the contraption shut for him.“Jesus fuck, Dad! Mood swing much?”John could see how his reaction would be surprising - he’d been the picture of patience for three days. Three days. Three days of being understanding while Sam bratted out, three days of placating an irritable Dean, three days of crap weather in a crap town. Three days in Sandusky, Ohio and John Winchester was about to kill his kids. No joke. The next argument he heard out of either one of them, he was going to pull out his gun and shoot them both dead.“Uh, Dad? You okay?” Dean. John whirled on him. The boy flinched, but continued in a soft voice, “You look like you’re going to kill Sammy, which, you know...I completely understand because I wanted to kill him earlier. But I thought we decided we weren’t going to follow through with that plan...”“I fail to see how that’s funny,” Sam grunted, sitting up and folding his long legs Indian style. He held out his hand for his father to inspect.“I hate Sandusky,” John muttered, taking a seat next to his youngest. “We’re getting out of here tomorrow. Whether we have somewhere else to go or not.”“I wish Cedar Point were open,” Dean said wistfully. “Tallest roller coaster in the world.”“Yeah,” Sam agreed, watching as his father gently removed the gauze from his hand. “It would be so cool to ride that thing. Like an airplane taking a nosedive. 420 feet at 120 miles per hour...” John stopped what he was doing, looked at the feigned dreamy expression on Sam’s face.“Stop teasing your brother, Samuel.”“Huh?” Sam asked innocently. “What? Is Dean afraid of planes or something?”  
“I wonder if they have any children’s party services around here,” Dean wondered out loud. “I wanna hire a clown. To tap dance for me. You know...for my own personal amusement.”“Get back to those newspapers, Dean.”“Why? We’re going to Connecticut...”John finished rewrapping Sam’s hand, looked to his oldest son. “What do you mean we’re going to Connecticut?”Dean held up a page of newspaper, sporting a cocky grin. “First page I looked at. Mysterious and unexplained deaths at the Pierpont Inn. Sounds like a real classy joint, eh?” “Good.” John nodded his head approvingly. He got to his feet, picked up Sam’s laptop and set it on the table. “You guys can get ready for bed then.”“It’s 8:45,” Sam told him. “We’re not going to bed at 8:45.”“Yes, you are,” John replied, picking his jacket up from the back of a chair. “Where are you going?” Dean asked.“Pool hall.”“I want to-”“You’re going to bed.”“We’re not going to bed at 8:45,” Sam snapped, waving both hands in the air in frustration. “We’re not 8 years old, Dad.”John glanced at his watch. “You’re right, Sam. You’re not 8 years old and you’re not going to bed at 8:45.”“Finally-”“You’re getting ready for bed at 8:46. 8:45 has already passed. You have until 8:51 to actually be in bed...and if I don’t see you two rushing to the bathroom in the next five seconds, so help me God, you’ll be going there with warm backsides.”They exchanged glances but didn’t move. Shit, John thought. Was he losing his fucking touch? Were they seriously not rushing to the bathroom? Why the hell   
weren’t they rushing to the bathroom?“Do I have to count?” he asked incredulously.“I wanna go to the pool hall,” Dean informed him.“I’m not going to bed at 8:51,” Sam added.“Why don’t you want me to come?” Dean asked. “I know we need cash, and two of us is better than one...”“It’s just absolutely ridiculous how you treat us. Sending twenty-somethings to bed before 9, for chrissakes...sending twenty-somethings to bed at all!”“Dude, pool hall.”“8:51, my ass...”John felt something inside him snap. His last nerve, perhaps, or maybe the wooden beams that had been holding that painted canvas of fatherly goodness straight for the past few weeks. Either way he was about to lose his shit. All he had wanted to do was go to a pool hall, alone. He had wanted to drink some beer and hustle some pool, and God help him he had wanted to get into a bar fight. Yes, a bar fight. He had wanted to punch some poor asshole’s face in just to relieve this fucking frustration that had been festering inside of him ever since entering this shithole town. But now he wasn’t going to take his frustration out on some poor asshole. He was going to take it out on his sons who refused to fear him.John dropped his coat with a sigh and rolled up his sleeves. Dean leapt to his feet.“Nevermind. Bathroom it is,” he said in a jovial tone. “Teeth-brushing, urination...masturbation in Sammy’s case, ‘cause, you know, unlike me, he doesn’t really get any...by the way, Sam, did you feel it when I was banging Brooke? Because that would be kind of disturbing...”“Get the fuck over here, Dean,” John growled reaching for Sam’s good hand to tug the boy off the bed. Sam squawked in protest, backed away from his father, kicking the bedspread with his feet as he crab-walked to the headboard.“But I’m going...” “Well, you’re too late, aren’t you?” John finally settled for grabbing Sam’s leg and pulling the boy towards him, clamping the tree-like limbs between his own   
legs to keep the boy still as he skillfully unfastened the worn jeans, yanked them roughly down along with the boy’s underpants, leaving the kid yelling and bare, hands flying to his groin to shield his manhood.“Be quiet, Sam,” John growled. “You’re going to attract unwanted attention if you keep on like you’re being murdered.”“I am being murdered!” Sam hissed, tears of humiliation apparent in his eyes as he struggled to wiggle out of his father’s leg grip of doom.“No,” John countered. “You’re getting a spanking. It’ll be over in a few minutes.”It wasn’t a lie. It was over in a few minutes, if you could count seven as a few. Along seven minutes in which John was far harsher than he normally would have been. Then another seven minutes as he dealt with Dean, and by 9:20, both of them were laying face down in their respective beds, Sam openly sobbing, Dean unable to stop the slight tremble of his shoulders. There were no more arguments, though, no more complaints about the absurd hour in respect to their ages, and no more demands to accompany him to the pool hall. So at least there was that.John turned off the light and closed the door behind him, feeling angry and sad and relieved and guilty and frustrated and generally like he was going to fucking explode. It was time for alcohol and the mourning of a loss of control. __________________________Sam sat close to his brother in the diner booth, avoiding his father’s eyes. Usually Dad just drove straight through to their next job, ordering them to pick up snacks while he gassed up the Impala. But he’d stopped in this tiny Pennsylvanian town, shooed them into this claustrophobic diner, and told them to order whatever they wanted. And that kind of freaked Sam out.It was cold as hell outside, and Sam still found himself shivering despite the warmth of the small building and closeness of his brother’s person. He’d cleaned his plate, finding himself both not wanting and wanting to please Dad. He hated himself for that. He felt like a kicked dog who wagged his tail and licked the fingers of his assailant.The waitress came back and Dad asked if they had warm pie. The waitress said that they sure did and Dad requested that she bring out a couple of slices for his boys here and the waitress smiled at them like that was just too cute before trotting off to do Dad’s bidding.“You guys okay?” Dad asked. “You’re quiet.”  
Sam wasn’t going to respond to that, but Dean droned a quiet, “Yessir.” Then he put his coffee mug to his lips and didn’t put it down for a long time, even though Sam knew he wasn’t drinking. Sam thought that was a pretty good idea, except for the fact that it looked really dumb.The waitress brought the pie back and it was really warm and amazing even to Sam who didn’t care for pie all that much. His chill went away and when he looked at Dean, he saw that his brother’s face was painted with an epic kind of pleasure. “You wanna drive the rest of the way, buddy?” Dad asked Dean after they were all finished, sliding the keys across the table.“Uh, yeah...sure. Thanks.” And then he let Sam have shotgun, which Sam took without a word, even though the gesture kind of caught him by surprise. Dad was obviously feeling remorse, but it seemed that his inability to verbally apologize had returned in full.They were in New York when Sam started to feel suddenly, inexplicably,and excruciatingly sad. They’d spent three days in Sandusky because he’d lost his shit and punched a tree...and Dad and Dean had thought settling him somewhere for a while would calm him down. Ava was still missing, though. Sam hadn’t found her, hadn’t saved her, had pretty much decided to forget about her. Because there was no hope. If he was a decent human being, he would still be actively searching for her, he wouldn’t set his sights on anything else, he wouldn’t be going to Connecticut. But Sam wasn’t a decent a human being...because he’d rather be in Connecticut than enduring the constant disappointment of searching and not finding. Sam wasn’t a decent human being because he was going to be evil soon enough,and then his father and his brother would have to kill him. He didn’t care what they said, they would have to kill him. Sam would make them kill him.Actually, he was pretty sure Dad would do it willingly. The older hunter seemed to be kind of sick of Sam and Dean now, not wanting them around and all. Sam wondered why the man didn’t just leave. He’d left before. He didn’t have to stay.He probably didn’t want to leave Dean saddled with the responsibility of offing Sam, probably knew Dean wouldn’t do it. Yeah. That was it. Dad was sticking around to make sure the job would get done. That was the only reason Dad ever really stuck around.They stopped at a rest stop shortly before crossing Connecticut state lines. Deansaid that he had to piss like a racehorse, punched Sam lightly in the leg, asking   
with his eyes if his little brother wanted to accompany him to the bathroom, get away from Dad. But Sam didn’t feel like getting up so he shook his head, though he felt Dean’s hand playfully ruffling his hair before his older brother ventured out on the cold walk to the restrooms.Dad was silent in the back seat as Sam mulled over everything that sucked about his life. And there was a lot that sucked.“Sammy?” Dad’s voice brought him out of his thoughts.Sam didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to respond. Should he give his father a neutral “yeah?” or an insolent “what?”? Or he could return back to his traditional 12-year-old status of “Leave me alone...” But none of those responses seemed appropriate, so he didn’t say anything. Not saying anything seemed like the right thing to do.“Sammy...”Dad didn’t know what to say either. He was just saying that damn name. That damn child’s name.“It’s Sam,” Sam told him.Dad was quiet for a moment. Sam saw Dean through the windshield, a far-away speck mulling over the vending machine options. Sam almost laughed. As if his brother hadn’t eaten enough already...“Sam, I fucked up.” He did, Sam knew. Dad had fucked up pretty badly. “You did,” Sam agreed. “And so did Mom. You shouldn’t have had a second kid.” Sam had no idea where that had just come from.“Sammy...what?”“If you didn’t have me, you wouldn’t be facing all this shit right now. Mom would probably still be alive, and Dean would be a normal guy. He might even have his own family. Jess would still be alive, too. And Ava...well, I don’t know about Ava.Because she’s like me. Her parents shouldn’t have had her either.”“Sammy, no, that’s not-”“You were going to apologize for losing your shit last night,” Sam said, watching   
as Dean began making his way back to the car, hands full of plastic packages. “You were finally going to suck up your big fucking ego and say that you were sorry. But you shouldn’t be. You should get used to treating me like I don’t have feelings, because pretty soon I’m gonna be one of those things that you have to kill.”Sam wasn’t really too sure what happened after that. He was aware of a sharp pain in his already bruised hand, and his father swinging the passenger side door open and grabbing the hand, holding the wrist tightly so that Sam couldn’t wrangle it out of his grip. But Sam just kind of wanted to punch the dashboard again, even though Dean was behind him, his arms wrapped around Sam’s torso, muttering in Sam’s ear about the car and about how Dean would bring physical harm to Sam if Sam proceeded to hurt the car anymore.And then Dad was leaning into the passenger seat, squeezing Sam’s arms against his sides because Dad had Sam in a suffocating hug that had Sam squirming to get away, but he couldn’t get away because Dean was behind him holding him equally as tight. And Dad was muttering desperate apologies into Sam’s hair, begging for forgiveness that Sam couldn’t give him right then because he was too busy swallowing down all the terrible things that wanted to come out of him. The sadness and the anger and the guilt and the fear. And they all wanted to come out of Sam in a terrific explosion, but Sam wouldn’t let them.Five minutes later, Dad had cleaned and re wrapped Sam’s hand and Dean was still looking pale and stricken, though he was smoothly trying to pass it off as worry for his car.Dad leaned in to envelope Sam in one last hug, and Sam consoled him silently by tucking his head into the man’s neck.“God, I hate traveling with women,” Dean griped.Dad returned to the back seat. Dean started driving again. Sam blinked tiredly and thought about how very little had just been resolved. He leaned against the window and tried to go to sleep, but the window was too hard, so he leaned against Dean’s arm instead. Dean shifted slightly, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t shifting at all, but Sam knew that his brother was trying to make him more comfortable.“You’re such a girl,” Sam mumbled.“You’re such a pain in my ass,” Dean replied.Dad didn’t say anything, but Sam felt fingertips trailing over his scalp and knew that it couldn’t possibly be Dean. He drifted off to sleep thinking about how cold it was in New England this time of year.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean was used to crap motels with bad themes and cockroaches, not classy digs like the Pierpont Inn. He took in the amply landscaped yard and entrance, and the tudor-style exterior with a low whistle. “Dude, look at this place.” “We see it, Dean,” Sam said flatly, taking his bag from Dad’s hands. Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother, taking in the puffy eyes and mussed hair. Sam had been sleeping relatively deeply for the past couple of hours, and if tradition held up (which Dean was pretty sure it would) his brother would be entertainingly grouchy for at least the next half hour.He opened his mouth to poke some fun, but was suddenly hit in the face by a large duffel which fell into his startled arms. “Leave Sam alone,” Dad told him, his voice gruff and edged with warning. The older hunter shut the trunk of the Impala and started towards the entrance of the inn.“Yeah, leave me alone,” Sam chorused before following their father, and Dean was reminded of his brother’s short-lived Daddy’s boy phase.“I didn’t even say anything,” Dean protested, unable to keep the whine out of his voice as he trotted behind them, bag slung over his shoulder.As far as Dean was concerned, some good old-fashioned brotherly ribbing was just what Sam needed to forget this effeminate frequent breakdown oh-my-god-I’m-going-evil-I-just-know-it kick he was on. Hell, if the kid could just set that shit aside for one day, Dean would be overjoyed.Dean continued walking, lost in this futile train of thought, and didn’t stop until he crashed into his father’s broad back. He stumbled backwards, kicking up pebbles from the drive before he managed to right himself. He regained his balance only to find two pairs of reproachful eyes trying to burn holes right through him.“Dean,” Dad said in that deceptively calm voice he got when he was feeling just a bit miffed at his offspring. “What are we on?”“Uh...well, Dad, I don’t know about you and Sam, but I’m not on anything,” Dean replied. Then, just for extra kicks, added, “Drugs are for thugs.” Dad did that thing where he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and counted internally. Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, I meant...we’re on a hunt...sir.”Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to whatever the hell they had been looking at before. Appropriate curiosity finally seizing him, Dean looked past Dad (who now looked as if he was deciding whether or not to kill Dean) to see what, to   
him, appeared to be an unremarkable-looking urn.“What’s up?” he asked.“It’s got a five-spot,” Sam told him, pointing at the pattern.“Huh.” Dean scanned his surroundings once more, taking note that Dad had finally turned away from him, thank Jesus. “Hoodoo? Seriously?”“Looks like.”“Dude. This is upper-class Connecticut. It doesn’t get much whiter than this.”“Yeah, well...white people can do hoodoo, too.”Dean snorted. “Enough with your liberal sensibilities, Sammy. I don’t believe in equal opportunity magic.”“Rosa Parks sat at the front of the bus, Dean.” Sam reminded him. Dean hated when Sam said his name like that. It was as if he were saying, Dean...if that is your real name...“Just because society regulates that we should do or not do certain things based on sex, religion, and race doesn’t mean-” Dad cleared his throat, pointed to the Inn’s front door. Sam glared at Dean, promised, “We’ll continue this conversation inside.”“No one is continuing this conversation,” Dad told him. “So help me, if I hear another fucking word about race in regards to hoodoo...”The unspoken threat was just enough to get Sam to bite his lip to keep from retorting, and Dean followed his father and brother into the inn.Inside, it was old and kind of derelict. The attractive 30-something woman at the counter asked if she could help them and Dad took charge, as Dad tended to do.Almost immediately, Dean found himself bored and restless. After all, the musty,grandiose interior of the inn was incredibly uninteresting in comparison to his little brother’s quintessential bitchface. He smacked Sam in the arm.“What?” Sam demanded. Dean quirked an eyebrow at the kid, shrugged, and felt an inexplicable kind of joy when Sam scowled. He didn’t retaliate though, and Dean’s arm starting itching within seconds. He told himself not to do it, told himself that hitting his brother again was just another step down an already slippery slope.  
But Sammy’s jaw was clenched, and his fists were clenching, and his brow was narrowed, and oh, God...Dean just couldn’t help himself.“Stop fucking hitting me, Dean!” Dean covered his mouth to keep from laughing. He felt something brush by his leg, and looked down to see a giggling little girl running past them.Dude, that was too perfect.“Samuel!” Dad and the lady behind the desk were staring at them. Dad looked forbidding. The woman looked caught between bewilderment and amusement.“Dean hit me,” Sam whined, and Dean watched the feminine eyebrows quirk wonderingly. Dad must have charmed this woman if she wasn’t finding this cause to throw them out.“I’m so sorry, Susan.”Wow. First name basis. Dad worked fast.“It’s okay. I’m sure she’s heard it before. Although, perhaps, if from now on...”“It won’t happen again,” Dad reassured her, shooting first Sam and then Dean, areproving look.Susan smiled beatifically at Dad. She motioned to an old guy wearing a bell hop uniform. “Sherwin will take your bags up to the room for you.”Sherwin. Dean snorted. Out loud. He couldn’t help it. The name was just too perfect.“You catching a cold, Dean-o?” Dad asked with a feral smile.Dean forced a cough, then shrugged his shoulders. No one ever got blamed for uncertainty. Or at least he hoped they didn’t._________________________________John stuffed a small tip into Sherwin’s hand. The old man gave him a compulsory smile which John returned before shutting the door. The Winchesters had never exactly been made of money and this place was a bit out of their price range, which, you would imagine with the stream of mysterious deaths, they would at least give them something of a discount, but apparently that was   
expecting too much. He listened at the door until Sherwin’s footsteps faded away before turning to his boys, whose bodies were already molded into the old beds, Sam on the full, Dean on the twin, faces tucked into the pillows.He went to Sam first, ran a hand through the long hair, noting the tired eyes and grouchy face.“No more swearing, Sammy. I mean it this time.” “Yessir.”“30 minutes and then we get started. Rest a bit more.”“Okay.”He moved to Dean, whose eyes stayed deliberately shut. John didn’t hesitate, or pause to warn his son, just bodily turned his eldest backside up and wrangled the jeans down to squawks of surprise and protest. The flesh was still tender and pink from the night before and John didn’t fail to notice the way the boy bit into the pillow to muffle his indignant cries as the six severe swats rained down on his wriggling bottom.John replaced the kid’s pants, ran a smooth hand across Dean’s back. “You remember now what misbehaving gets you?”“Yessir,” Dean muttered.“Can you try to act like a respectable young man for me?”“Just while we’re here?”John snorted, placed a hand on the back of Dean’s warm neck and squeezed. “Just while we’re here until it becomes necessary again.”“‘Kay.”“Good boy. Sleep for a bit, okay?”“Mmm...”John watched his son’s eyes closed, took a moment to marvel at how young the nearly 28-year-old looked from this perspective. He ran a hand through Dean’s tousled hair, heard the boy’s breathing deepen, watched the body nestle more   
firmly into the mattress, and John felt his own lids droop heavily over his eyes.He settled himself down next to Sam, waited for the tall boy to curl into him. ButSam didn’t and the long, broad back stayed turned to John. The older hunter swallowed his disappointment. Either he wasn’t forgiven yet or Sam’s turning-evil worries were still at the forefront of the kid’s mind. Both thoughts hurt and John closed his eyes and tried not to fight the sleep that was desperate to overcome him.He opened his eyes to find the room dark and both of his sons gone. The alarm clock indicated that two hours had passed since their arrival and John reached over and turned on a lamp, closed his eyes against the onslaught of the stinging light.“Where the hell did they go?” he grumbled to himself.He got to his feet, stumbled, found his bearings. Rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He left the room and started walking down the hallway. It wasn’t long before he heard the voices of his boys and the high-pitched giggle of a little girl.He turned into an open door to find Susan packing a box, her mouth twitching up just slightly as she observed something just out of John’s sight.“For someone who just called those dolls creepy, Dean, you sure seem to be finding them amusing.”“What can I say?” Dean’s voice replied. “It’s kind of funny to pretend antique dolls are ninjas. Hey, Tyler...who do you think would win in a fight? My ninja dollor Sammy’s ninja doll?”“My ninja doll,” Tyler replied.“Well that’s just...” Dean trailed off, as if he was rethinking what he was about to say. “That’s just true, isn’t it?”“Yes.”Two low chuckles were punctuated by a giggle, and John took this moment to knock on the side of the threshold. Susan turned as he stepped into the room and smiled.“Hey, there. Looking for your wayward offspring?”“Hope they’re not giving you any trouble...” John trailed off, took in the sight of his two adult sons sprawled on the floor, antique dolls in hand, and the seven-  
year-old girl who was staring at them with open adoration. There was a large, impressive model of the hotel on a table next to them with little figurines scattered haphazardly around it.“Oh, I think Tyler finds them to be sufficiently entertaining.”“Sammy, can I braid your hair?” Tyler asked.Dean snorted with laughter. Sam just looked put out.“See, Sammy? Even girls think you’re a girl.”“Shut up, Dean. Tyler just admires my ability to grow awesome hair. Tyler, whose hair is better, mine or Dean’s?”“Yours,” the little girl chirped and Sam’s face spread into a wide grin. John felt warmed at the sight. It felt like too long since Sam had last smiled.“Tyler, who’s more handsome, me or Sammy?”Tyler put a small hand to her face, tapped her chin with a contemplative finger.“Oh, no,” Susan said. “I’m almost afraid how this is going to turn out...”John chuckled. “My boys are pretty tough. I think they’ll be able to get over the blow to their self-esteems pretty well.”“Dean’s more handsome because he looks like a prince in the fairy tales,” Tyler finally announced.“Ha!”“But Sammy’s cuter.”Sam quickly stuck his tongue out his brother, whose face had fallen somewhat.Five minutes later, Susan shooed the three men out citing that she was expecting another guest to check in within the hour. Tyler looked momentarily disappointed that her two new playmates were leaving, but brightened almost immediately saying that she wasn’t so mad at Maggie anymore and would go play with her.John shepherded his boys back into their room, demanded to know why he wasn’t woken up.  
“You don’t sleep very much, Dad,” Sam told him. “We just wanted you to sleep.”“Besides,” Dean said, “it looked more innocent for Sam and I to curiously knock on the Employees Only door. You already established yourself as being the strict father of two grown, yet delightfully boyish sons.” He looked to Sam. “Dude, Susan totally ate that shit up.”John really was going to have to do something about that swearing habit.“We are endearing,” Sam agreed.John nodded thoughtfully. They were right, of course. “So what did you find out?”“That an old lady lives in the attic,” Dean said, his expression indicating that this was the coolest stereotypical discovery they’d stumbled upon in a long time.“Rose, Susan’s mother,” Sam specified. “We tried to meet her under the ruse that we wanted to discuss the dolls with her, but Susan said that she was incredibly ill and was unable to talk with anyone.”“So we think we’ve found our hoodoo master,” Dean finished, and the boys stood before him looking quite pleased with themselves. John had to fight down a smile, feeling somewhat surprised when they didn’t high-five each other.“Good job, boys.” They fidgeted at the praise. John reached out and grabbed Dean’s hand, pulled him in. He dealt the boy one stern swat to his squirming behind.“The fu-”And then another.“Jesus fu-”And then another, harsher blow that had Dean leaping forward at the impact.“Dean, don’t swear!” Sam half-yelled, hands waving in urgency as his brother opened his mouth once again.“Oh, holy crap. Is that what this is about?” John considered that statement, kept his hand gripped around his eldest’s arm. “Crap isn’t a swear, Dad. We can let that one go, can’t we?”  
John chuckled, let the kid go, watched in amusement as Dean backed up, large hands shielding his burning backside. “Sometimes, kiddo, I think you’re deliberately thickheaded.”Sam nodded in agreement.“Hey!” Dean protested. “It’s not deliberate!”“That just makes it worse,” Sam told him.Dean scowled. “Is it just me or am I getting the raw end of the deal here?” He pointed at Sam. “You’re making fun of me. And you...” he whirled on John. “Three times in like, what? 24 hours? Dad, that’s just...that’s just child abuse, that’s what that is.”“You want me to call Child Protective Services?” Sam offered. “Because I will...”John stood off to the side as Dean tackled Sam onto the larger of the two beds. He watched as the boys wrestled each other, listened to the squeak of the mattress and Sam’s peals of laughter. Twenty-three years old and the kid was still ticklish. John marveled at the sound, let it soak in. He gave them a few warnings to not get too rough, settle down, quiet down, but he didn’t enforce anything. It was too nice, hearing them sound happy for once.***Sam tipped the bottle of Jack Daniel's into his mouth, swallowed greedily, winced as it burned down his throat. Numb, he thought. Just make me numb, you fuck.Susan’s new tenant had hung himself in his room. The ambulance was outside and so were Dad and Dean. Sam could see the glow of the flashing red lights from the window. He didn’t understand why they insisted on having the lights on. There was no emergency when the guy was already dead. There was no reason to rush, or to warn people. The only purpose of ambulance lights at this point was to make a spectacle.And to remind Sam that he had failed.Guy had been two rooms over. Two rooms. And Sam hadn’t done anything, had been oblivious, hadn’t helped the guy, hadn’t saved him, hadn’t done anything, not one damn thing out of the millions of things he could have done to save the guy, the one guy, one measly asshole he could have saved out of the thousands he would probably kill because Sam wasn’t a good person anymore. He was bad.A bad seed. An evil, demonic presence. The bane of that one guy’s existence.   
And that one guy, that one guy Sam failed to protect, could just be every guy, every damn guy in this damn world, and his wife and child and mother, and Sam would never save him or them, any of them. He would end them. He would give them lives of misery and pain and end them. And they would be unhappy like Sam was unhappy, and have to numb themselves with a bottle of Jack in a hard wooden chair that squeaked when they shifted, with their father and brother outside, faces washed in the hot glow of ambulance lights.Dean waltzed in a few minutes later, talking about that one guy. He told Sam to do some things that Sam probably didn’t want to do. Sam wasn’t really sure if he wanted to do them, because he couldn’t remember what they were. He just called Dean bossy and short to let his older brother know that Sam knew that he was in the room.“What did you say?” Dean demanded.“I’m acknowledging your existence,” Sam slurred, the bottle falling from his hand to the floor, splashing alcohol onto the old wooden beams.“Jesus, Sammy...”Sam was limp as a ragdoll as Dean hauled him to his feet and shoved him down onto the bed.“Don’t wanna go to bed, Dean.”“It’s better if you’re asleep before Dad sees you like this,” Dean told him. Sam felt his older brother tugging off his shoes. It reminded him of when they were little and Dean was like the Dad and Dad was like the absentee Dad who paid minimum child support. “You know better than this, kiddo. I don’t know what the fuck you’re thinking, man,” Dean lectured, and he continued lecturing even though Sam wasn’t listening.“You have to kill me,” Sam blurted out, cutting off Dean’s diatribe. “You have to kill me if I turn evil.” Dean didn’t reply, shoved Sam down on the bed, tried to force him horizontal, but Sam sprang back up. “Dean, you have to-”“No, I don’t. I won’t. Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, Sam.”“You have to kill-”“I’d rather die,” Dean hissed, and his voice was harsh and Sam winced at the sound. “You need to-”“Who got into Daddy’s bottle of Jack?”   
Dean turned so quickly that Sam thought his head would spin. Sam looked and blinked slowly at Dad who was standing in the threshold in the room. Dad took off his coat and closed the door behind him, picked the sideways bottle off the floor. He set it on the desk, before turning and eyeing Sam.“M’sorry. I’ll buy you a new one,” Sam promised. He leaned forward, buried his head into his brother’s side. He felt Dean’s hand awkwardly brush through his hair, knew that he was the only one his brother would ever do this for.“Why, Sammy?” Dad was trying to be understanding, Sam could tell.“Dead guy.”“You’ve seen plenty of dead guys.”“Didn’t save him.”“You didn’t know. How could you save a guy you didn’t know was in danger of dying?”Sam blinked. He didn’t know the answer to that question. What was that question? It was something rational. Dad was looking at him with kind eyes and Dean’s hand was still in Sam’s hair, and there was a logical question in the air that Sam couldn’t provide the answer for.His eyes filled with tears.“I’m bad.”“You’re not bad, baby.”“I will be.”This time Sam didn’t protest when Dean pushed him down to the bed, or when Dad picked up his legs to join the rest of his body on the mattress. He mewled a little when Dad started taking off his jeans, starting promising to try not to be bad but Dad hushed him and covered him with a blanket. Sam moaned and rolled over onto his stomach.“Lay on your side, Sammy,” Dean ordered.Sam didn’t, but he felt too strong hands bodily turn him over anyway. He curled up into the fetal position, vaguely wondering if it had been Dad or Dean. He made clumsy grabs into the air until he managed to snatch part of a sleeve.  
“M’sorry,” he mumbled.“It’s okay, Sammy.” It was Dad.“Dad...”“I understand. I do. You have to trust me. I do.”“Buy you new bottle...”“Good. I expect you to. Two new bottles, preferably.”“‘Kay. Love you.”Dad might have said it back. Sam wasn’t sure. Everything was just a hum now. Endless and hazy and nonspecific, and Sam thought maybe he could be endless and hazy and nonspecific. Not black or white, but gray. Human, maybe.__________________________________________“You want some breakfast? Toast? Bacon? Eggs?”Dean grinned at the painful retching emanating from the bathroom. Oh, Sammy.Silly, hung-over Sammy.“Hilarious,” Sam croaked.Dad was sitting on the edge of twin bed, stuffing his feet into his boots.“I’m gonna get up to the attic today,” he said quietly. “I want you and Sam to keep Susan and her girls occupied. Think you can do that?”Dean huffed. As if he couldn’t do a little thing like that. “It’s not a problem, Dad. I don’t know if they want Puke Breath over there for company, though.” He jerked his head in Sam’s direction, even though it wasn’t necessary.“Sammy, you up for work today?” Dad asked, raising his volume just a bit so that Sam could heard him over the sound of his own bodily functions.“Yessir,” Sam called back, before hanging his head back over the toilet and letting out a particularly ugly bout of vomit.Dad shrugged at Dean. “Sounds fine to me.” Dean cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at his father. Last night’s Mr. Understanding seemed to have   
transformed into today’s Mr. Doesn’t Give A Shit. Dad noticed the look. “Socializing while hung over isn’t going to kill him, Dean. I’m sure you’ve done itplenty of times.”“What about me?” Sam asked from the bathroom. “How do you know I haven’t done it plenty of times?”“Because you never left the library during college,” Dad replied matter-of-factly.“How would you-”“How do you think I know that, Sammy?”“Invasion of privacy,” the youngest Winchester muttered, though to Dean’s ears the kid sounded somewhat pleased. About ten minutes later Sam was clean and there was a timid knock on the door.Dean opened it to find Tyler looking up at him with wide excited eyes.“Do you and Sammy wanna come out and play?” Dean snorted. Well, that plan just fell right into their laps. “Can your mom join us?” he asked.“Uh huh.”“Alright, then.” He looked over to his Dad, got the nod of approval and waved for Sammy to come. The kid lumbered, slow and clumsy, towards them and Tyler grabbed his hand when he made it out into the hallway.“You look kind of green,” the little girl observed and Dean treated her to a gruff chuckle.“Sammy’s under the weather,” he stage-whispered behind a conspiratorial hand.“He hit the sauce a little too hard last night.”Tyler’s eyes widened. “Ew. Wine is gross.”“Wine?” Sam asked.“Yeah. Sauce is wine, right? Mommy says that she hit the sauce a little too hard whenever she drinks a lot of wine.”This time, Dean outright laughed. “Oh, Connecticut.”  
Outside, Sam sat with Susan while Dean spun around on the spinning playground equipment with Tyler. The kid was adorable and an endless source of amusement - maybe even better than a TV and a commercial-free marathon of Porky’s movies. He might just have to invest in one of these child things one day.“So where’s Maggie?” he asked, winding his long legs around the metal bars as they slowly spun to a stop.Tyler shrugged. “Inside somewhere, probably. She didn’t want to come out.”“How come?”The little girl scowled. “She doesn’t like you and Sammy very much.”Well, that...that was just judgmental. Dean and Sam were perfectly nice individuals once you got to know them. Well, Sam was. Dean realized he could be a little hard to take, but...wait, was he really getting himself bent out of shape over some little girl’s irrational dislike of him?“How come?” he asked.“She thinks I like you better than her.”“Well, that’s just silly. Sam and I are only going to be around for a little while and you and Maggie will be together forever.” But Tyler was shaking her little head, looking quite sad, and Dean asked, “...you and Maggie won’t be together forever?”“No,” Tyler said. “We’re moving.”“I know...Maggie isn’t moving with you?”“She has to stay here.”What the fuck?“Wait...isn’t Maggie your sister?”Tyler shook her head. “She’s just my friend. She came one day after Grandma got sick and we’ve been playing ever since. Mommy doesn’t think she’s real, but she is. And she really doesn’t want us to leave. She says she’ll be all alone if we leave and I keep telling Mommy that, but she doesn’t believe me. You believe me, right Dean?”  
Oh, shit. Ohshitohshitohshitohshit...“DEAN! LOOK OUT!”Dean heard Sam’s warning but it was too late. Something big and heavy crashed into his head and Dean fell off the large hunk of spinning metal and onto the muddy ground. He floated in and out of consciousness, but when he became aware he was still on the ground and Dad was there, easing Dean up into a sitting position, pulling Dean’s back against his chest.And Dean puked. A geyser of vomit spewed out of his mouth, probably went thousands of feet into the distance. He choked and sobbed a bit, unable to help it. Stupid fucking puking. “That’s not good.”“He needs an ambulance.”He could feel the rise and fall of Dad’s chest, started breathing in time with his father, deep breaths. His head hurt like a bitch.“Tyler?” he asked.“She’s okay, Dean. She went to get the first aid kit. Sherwin called 911,” Susan’s voice came through, sweet and soothing and feminine.“How long?”“Just a couple of minutes,” Dad assured. “I heard Sam yell and I came right down.”“What hit me?”“Weathervane,” Sam interjected, pointing to a bent metal weathervane sporting a rooster.“Dude. A rooster got the drop on me,” Dean groaned. “Sammy, if you ever tell anyone, I’m gonna-”“Who am I going to tell?” Sam half-laughed. “Dad? Because Dad knows, Dean. Oh, wait. Just give me a second. I’m gonna go call Bobby right now...”“Dad!”  
“Sam.”“What? I’m his brother. If your brother can’t make fun of you while you’re so obviously and dangerously concussed, who can?”Brother. Brother...sibling...sister. Maggie. Maggie not sister.Oh, shit.“Dean, you’re not ready to stand yet,” Dad scolded. “Stop struggling.”“Tyler...where’s Tyler?”“She’s getting the first aid kit,” Susan reminded him. “Short-term memory loss. That’s not good.”“No!” Dean said desperately. “Maggie’s not her sister!”Sam looked at Susan. “Maggie’s not her sister?”“Maggie...” Susan trailed off, looking at Dean like he was out of his mind. “Maggie’s Tyler’s imaginary friend.”There was suddenly a whirlwind of movement, an explosion of sound. Everyone was yelling and moving and running, and by everyone, Dean just meant Sam and Susan. But there were like three of each of them so it was like six people yelling and moving, really. Susan was demanding an explanation, asking why they were all crazy and Dad and Sam were telling her to shut up, there was no time, no one was crazy here. And Dean was hazy and funny-feeling.“Tyler,” Dean said again.“Sam’s gone to get her, Dean,” Dad said. “She’ll be okay.”“You go, too.”“Your brother can handle it. I’m staying with you.”Dad got to his feet.“Stay,” Dean pleaded.“We’ve already covered this, champ. M’not going.”   
Dad had superhuman strength. He must have. Because he heaved Dean into his arms, carried him like he was some kind of freakin’ damsel in distress.“Aw, Dad...my hero,” he joked.“Shut up, or I’ll drop you,” Dad warned, even though Dean knew he wouldn’t. They got inside, Dad sat on the couch, kept Dean in his lap. Dean muttered things about how this was really humiliating but Dad refused to reposition him.The ambulance came eventually. And so did Sam and Susan and Tyler. Sam was really wet. Like, drenched. Head to toe. So was Tyler. And they were both shivering like hell and so was Dean, who wasn’t wet and didn’t have an excuse but still shivered anyway. Susan kissed Sam and started babbling about how he saved Tyler’s life. Sam blushed. Dean laughed, said something about Sam and MILFs and Susan looked both offended and pleased.Dean kind of wondered how they suddenly came to be in a hospital. This CAT scan machine thing was too small and cooped and he didn’t like it very much. And something was grabbing his bare foot and shaking it like Dad used to do when Dean was just a small pup.“You’re okay, buddy.”Ah, it was Dad. Well, that made it okay, then, didn’t it?____________________________“Dean, for the last time, you stay down and close your eyes. If I have to tell you again, I’m pulling over...”“Sammy got drunk on a job, and you’re threatening to lay into me because I refuse to rest when I’m concussed? Dad, where’s the fairness in that?”“Oh, yeah. Hold on.”Dad turned off an exit into a small town. They drove around for a little while until they found a shopping center with an ABC store.“You owe me two bottles of Jack, little boy,” Dad reminded Sam and Sam sighed, dug his wallet out of his back pocket and peered into the empty billfold.“Dean, can I borrow some money?”“No.”  
“Aw, c’mon...”“I don’t have any. And I’m concussed. Just steal ‘em.”Sam looked to Dad, who shrugged. “You get arrested, I’ll make it so you can’t sit for a year.”Sam turned back to Dean. “Dean, c’mon, I know you have some...”“Dude, I earned this money.”Sam huffed. “Dude, you hustled some unfortunate biker out of that money. That’s not earning.”“Is so.”“Is not.”“Is-”Dad stuffed 40 bucks into Sam’s hand. Sam stared at it.“Just go get me my booze, kid.”Sam knew a get-out-of-jail-free card when he saw one and like Hell he was going to pass this up. He climbed out of the car and scampered into the store.He’d saved Tyler. And Dean was going to be alright. Everything was okay, everything had turned out just fine. Sam had established himself as a good person. Sam was a good person. For now, at least.And he’d gotten away with drinking on the job. That was like a miracle in itself considering Dean kept getting spanked for the slightest infractions. And Sam, too, actually, considering he’d gotten it for swearing the day before, in the hospital.He pulled two black-labeled bottles off of the shelf. He looked at them and he thought of Dad. He always thought of Dad when he saw Jack. It used to be with a sinking stomach that Sam looked at the bottles and now he just felt kind of warm. Like fondness. Like the black label was actually printed with the words, “Oh, Dad...” in a fond, twelve-year-old girl font. Or maybe it was because he felt like he understood Dad a little bit better now. Like they were kindred or something, now that Sam realized why Dad had needed to be numb all those years.  
“You gonna buy those, kid, or are you just gonna look at them?”“Oh, uh...” Sam handed the bottles over to the clerk who then demanded to see I.D.But Dad wasn’t going to turn evil, Sam thought, watching as the unkempt man behind the counter squinted at his driver’s license. Dad had always been safe from that particular worry. Sam might turn evil, but he wouldn’t stay that way.“Thanks,” he said, throwing the bills at the man, and taking the paper bag in hand.No, he thought, as he watched Dad turn in the driver’s seat and stuff Dean back down. They’re going to have to kill me. Necessary evil and all that. It won’t be me anymore. He stuffed the bag in the trunk before climbing into the passenger seat.“Where’re we going?” he asked Dad.“Your brother wants to go to Vegas.”Sam snorted. “Yeah? So where are we going?”“Vegas!” “I’m thinking we should go see your Uncle Bobby.”Dean laughed. “Dude, we haven’t called him Uncle Bobby in like...let’s see...twelve years?”“Sounds about right,” Sam agreed. “Yeah, I wanna see Bobby. We haven’t seen him in a long time...and he hasn’t seen you, yet, Dad.”“I wonder if he’ll grab the rifle when he sees the car.”“You can calm him down with the story of how Dean got severely concussed by a rooster.”“Hey! Nobody’s tellin’ anybody-”“Sounds like a good idea,” Dad agreed. “So, North Dakota, then?”


	16. Chapter 16

John was in the habit now of keeping one eye on the road and one on whichever son was in the passenger seat. He glanced sideways at Sam. The boy was slouched slightly forward, fingers in his mouth, crunching at his nails. Sam seemed to be doing that a lot, as of late. John reached over, eased the hand from the mouth.“Dad?”“Bad habit, Sammy. Watch out for it.”“‘Kay.”John hadn’t failed to notice that Sam had started looking at him differently since the other night. It was like the resentment had melted away, and adoration had taken its place. There was a hint of what he had seen earlier in the year, before he had died - the grudging acceptance in Sam’s eyes when he had realized that by circumstance he was his father’s son, that John understood, that John had to understand. And John did understand. He would always, on some level, understand - it was his nature as a father, even a poor one. But the way Sam looked at him now was different from the way Sam had looked at him then. The way Sam looked at him now reminded John of when the boy was six and would gaze in doe-eyed admiration upon ten-year-old Dean. When the two had been in the same boat, and the older would lead the younger safely through the choppy seas of life’s despairs.I understand. I do. You have to trust me. I do, he had said. And he had watched his baby boy fall into a peaceful drunken sleep, the face soft with self-medication.And he had understood, but that didn’t mean that he thought it was okay. Drinking on the job was one of the most dangerous things his son could do. He had meant to have a talk with Sam, but the hunt had reached its peak and then Dean was in the hospital and then they were in the car, as they were now.They got as far as Indiana before they had to stop for the night. The boys held anew hatred for this state, John could sense it in their silence, in their averted gazes. Sam stopped looking out the window, lolled his head onto his left shoulder, pinned his eyes somewhere between the seat cushion and John’s legs. Dean was awake and fidgeting but not making any of his usual remarks, or asking stupid questions out of sheer boredom.“We’re going to have to stop, boys,” John said, keeping his tired eyes open for motel exits.  
“I can drive,” Sam said.“No, you can’t.” And for once, John wasn’t being difficult. He was being sensible. Sam had driven eight hours and hadn’t slept since, had kept Dean entertained and John awake. John was tired. Sam was tired.“I can drive,” Dean offered.Dean was concussed.“No, you can’t.” John had to wonder when he would be given the opportunity to say something else.“But-”“Dean, shut up,” Sam said. “Dad, I swear, I can-”“We need to stop and sleep. We should be able to make it there tomorrow, but I’m too tired to drive anymore and you haven’t slept...and your brother needs somewhere slightly more comfortable to rest his head.”“No, I-”“Be quiet, Dean,” John ordered, steering the Impala smoothly onto the exit ramp.The motel lobby was small and poorly decorated - there were some particularly hideous burgundy curtains adorned with a plethora of tiny gold ducks hanging over the back window. The man behind the front desk was short and bald, with thin spectacles and a smile that made the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up.“We only have kings available.”And his voice was so high-pitched, John felt his eyebrows practically rise on their own.“You only have kings available...” he repeated slowly.“You brain damaged or somethin’? You understand what that means, don’t you?”John felt the weight of his gun in the back of his jeans, felt his fists clench, and his mind burn blind with fury. It was a surge of electricity, something that felt strong and familiar, but surprisingly distant.   
He opened his mouth to let this ugly little bastard have it, but then he heard the retching.“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, voice ringing with concern.John whirled around. Dean had managed to scramble to a potted plastic tree before letting loose. Sam was at his brother’s side, his hand on the older boy’s back, blatantly ignoring the fact that Dean was weakly elbowing him away.“Hey! Your little fairy just threw up in my plant!”John turned slowly back to the motel manager, eyes blazing.“Dad...?” Sam asked.John ignored him, asked,“Dean, buddy...you gonna be okay?”“Yeah...” The small voice wasn’t reassuring, but John took from it what he could.“Sam...take your brother back to the car. Get him settled. I’ll only be a minute.”“Dad, I don’t think-”“Don’t worry. We’re resting for the night. I just need a minute, okay?”He heard a quiet “yessir,” then some rustling and grunting as Sam presumably positioned Dean’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried his older brother out of the lobby.It was a short encounter and John accepted the king once he was sure the asshole wasn’t having him on (the weasely little shit might have had a big mouth, but he sure as hell had no pride, John realized as the man trembled and stuttered and tried his best not to piss himself).“You might want to clean that up,” John added politely, taking the motel key from the shaking hand, nodding towards the plastic tree. “Dean has a penchant for greasy food, so it’s probably going to smell pretty putrid within the next half-hour...and odors like that, they tend to spread and sink into fabrics...” John looked pointedly at the duck curtains, smiled kindly.“Y-yeah...”“Excuse me?” John asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”“Y-yeah? Y-yes, sir. Thank y-you for the advice.”  
John grinned. “Now, that...that’s good customer service. Try to do that more often. You have a nice night now, you hear?”The man stuttered something else, something nice and submissive, as John went outside to fetch his boys. Sam had Dean sitting up in the passenger seat, standing over him with the door still open and John could hear his eldest’s mild complaints about being treated as an invalid as he approached them.“Calm down there, Dean.”“Did you beat him up?” Dean asked hopefully, looking at his father with dark eyes. John reached out, ran a hand through the boy’s hair.“No.”“He called me-”“I heard him. He won’t do it again.”“Did you get a room?” Sam asked as John’s hand traveled down to cup Dean’s flushed cheek. He felt warm when the boy sunk into the touch, though the warmth was accompanied by a nudge of worry. Kid wasn’t feeling well.“I did. We have to share.” He didn’t hesitate with the news, already braced for the moment when the boys’ faces fell, prepared for when the protests would start.“A king?” Dean groaned.John shrugged. “All they had, kiddo. We can tolerate it for the night.”“Better than the car,” Sam said.That was surprising. John gave his youngest a grateful smile, held a hand out to Dean.“M’feeling better,” Dean told him. “My head was just hurting was all.” But he took the hand and winced a little as John eased him out of the car. John tried to lead him forward but Dean pushed him away, leaned against the car, blinked rapidly.“You blacking out?” John asked.“M’just tired.”  
“Dean.” The reprimand came from Sam.“It was a migraine. I puked. I always feel woozy after I puke.”“You had a migraine and you still wanted to drive?” John asked. And Dean smirked and said, “When don’t I want to drive?” The response was simple and honest and very Dean. The king size bed was too big for the room. John watched with a sort of tired amusement as his boys took three long strides from the door before falling face down onto the mattress.“It’s surprisingly soft,” Dean mumbled, pushing at Sam’s head with a lazy hand. “Dad, do they have free HBO here?”John glanced at the crappy 20 inch television dangerously teetering on the edge of the dresser.“We’re not here for TV, Dean. Go to the bathroom and get ready for bed.”Dean muttered something foul under his breath, but heaved himself to his feet and trudged to the bathroom.John took his place, sitting gingerly down on the bed next to his still-sprawled son. Sam smiled tiredly at him. John tipped his lips up, taking in the half-scrunched face nuzzled into the bed. He would have liked to have just let the boy relax, enjoyed this comfortable silence with his son, but he knew that if they were going to have this conversation they should start it soon. A light pat to Sam’s backside had the boy’s attention.“Da-ad.”“We need to talk about the other night.”Sam lifted his head, craned his neck to look up at his father. “You said you understood.”“I do understand. You were in pain. You were feeling guilt over something you had no control over. But drinking on the job, Sam, is a profoundly stupid thing to do. I’ve always taught you that we need to be constantly alert. I need to know that you get that what you did the other night, no matter how much I might understand it, was something I do not in any way condone.”  
The soft affection in Sam’s eyes hardened ever so slightly. “You’re not gonna...”“No.” A swift sigh escaped Sam lips. John clarified, “Not this time, Sammy. But ifyou ever do it again...”“I won’t,” Sam promised. He rolled over, tucked his face into his father’s side. John ran a hand through the long hair.“No drinking. At all. Three weeks.”Dean came out of the bathroom, then, his face shining from recent wash.Sam jerked away, looked at his father aghast.“The fuck, Dad?” Sam demanded, then squealed when John landed a rather serious swat to his rear.“Rephrase the question, son.”It took a few more swats, some persuasive words from Dean, some pleas/threats from John, but eventually Sam accepted that nothing he could say would change John’s mind. He stalked off to the bathroom grumbling about fathers who thought their word was more important than nation-wide law.“Dad?” Dean asked.The kid was obviously still feeling the effects of his concussion. John rifled through his bag and pulled out Dean’s painkillers, watched the boy sit on the edge of the bed and down them with a plastic cup of water. Dean gripped the cup with two hands and John remembered the boy when he was four and had a fever.“Your head’s taken a few too many recently, kiddo. We’re gonna have to lay low for a little while.”“M’fine,” Dean predictably returned, though seemed taken off guard when his father took the cup from his hands, placed it on the night stand. He stared woozy-eyed at the palms of his hands as if wondering where it had gone, and only looked up when John placed a hand on his shoulder. “Can I watch TV?”“No.”Dean sighed, leaned his head into his father’s abdomen. John dipped his head down, pressed it against his son’s, soaking in this rare moment of voluntary affection between the two of them.   
“I...don’t feel well,” Dean admitted.“You gonna throw up?” John asked, pulling away and tilting the kid’s head up to look into the tired green eyes. Dean shook his head. “What hurts?” But Dean only lifted his shoulders slightly, pushed his head back against his father’s strong torso.The four-year-old with a fever couldn’t come up with a legitimate excuse for what hurt either, just clung to John for affection, expecting his father to provide it. I’ve got you, John would say, Dean’s tiny legs wrapped around his waist, tear streaked cheeks nestled into his neck.That was before Mary died. When John was full of solicitousness for his children and Dean hadn’t yet found that almost heartbreaking independence that left him so constantly alone.Sam came out of the bathroom, and still Dean didn’t pull away. John leaned down, planted a kiss on the top of his son’s head.Dean groaned when John eased away, but helped his father by lifting his hips to get the jeans off, swinging his own legs onto the mattress. Sam got in on the other side of the bed settled next to his older brother. John joined them a few minutes later. He watched his boys fall asleep. Dean moaned a little, turned restlessly. John watched for a while before leaning over Sam, resting a hand on Dean’s head and stroking the boy’s forehead with his thumb.“I’ve got you,” he promised, his voice a low rumble.Dean settled down. The Winchesters slept well that night.***Dean sat up in the back seat and fidgeted. He could see the salvage yard coming into view, the bits of steel and alloy glinting under the darkening sky. Sam had called Bobby earlier from a fast food joint, warned him that they were coming. They hardly ever asked anymore. Bobby just kind of expected them to show up when they needed him. But this time...this time there was Dad, and both brothers knew that the Bobby/Dad relationship was a tumultuous seesaw of gruff fondness and heated violence.“Dad? You think you can try not to get into a fight with Bobby as soon as you see him?” Dean asked tentatively as the Impala coasted to a stop, her wheels kicking up gravel.“I called him about a month ago, you know. When you first brought me back.”  
“We know. He said.”“You’ve talked to him?”“He’s Bobby. Of course we’ve talked to ‘im,” Sam interjected, his tone bordering on insolent.“How come I didn’t know?”“Because we don’t need your permission to talk to him.”“I didn’t say you did,” Dad replied, his own voice bordering on barely restrained anger.It was weird, Dean thought as he opened his door and climbed out of the car, how fast Sam could go from Daddy’s little boy to John Winchester’s most infuriating offspring. They’d been quiet around each other all day, only exchanging a few terse words here and there when they couldn’t avoid it.Sam was taking the three weeks of prohibition pretty hard. Dean thought the kidwas getting off far too easy. In Dean’s opinion, drinking on the job should result in an ass beating and a restriction, not just the restriction.He was brought out of his thoughts by someone licking his hand.“Hey, Rumsfeld.” The dog whined and accepted Dean’s momentary pat on the head before running at Sam, who gratefully took the opportunity to further ignore his father by kneeling down and allowing Rumsfeld to lick his face.Dean and Dad were almost to the front door when it creaked open and Bobby stepped out, his head stuffed in the familiar old hat, and a shotgun slung over his shoulder.“Hey, Bobby,” Dean grinned.“Dean,” Bobby replied. “I have half a mind to beat the tar out of you.”Dean raised his eyebrows, puzzled. “Why? I didn’t do anything...”The older man glared at him, then looked to John. He eased the gun off his shoulder, let the barrel rest in his empty hand. “Winchester, why in the hell does your idiot son believe he didn’t do anything?”John rolled his eyes. “Because he doesn’t have an attention span that lasts that   
long, Singer. How long have you known him, again?”“What...?” Dean trailed off. What the hell were they talking about? What did he do that was worthy of a tar-ridding beating? And why in the fuck was Dad insulting his attention span?Rumsfeld barked joyfully. Dean turned to see Sam wrestling with the dog on the ground.“Sam! Get over here! That’s a guard dog, not a pet!”Dean snorted. “Bobby, just because you say it, it doesn’t make it true.” Dad chuckled, much to Dean’s delight and Bobby’s irritation. Dean tried again, “Dad, what did I do?”“I believe Bobby is referring to the fact that you made a deal with a demon to bring my sorry ass back from the dead,” Dad told him.Oh, right. That. Dean had kind of almost forgotten about that. But his response was almost instant, and very firm, “I’d do it again.”Bobby scowled, obviously not liking the response, but he didn’t reprimand Dean.He hollered to Sam again, instead. Dad was looking at Dean with a mixed expression that Dean didn’t even want to try to decipher.“For the love of...” Bobby grumbled, his eyes pinned on Sam who had chosen to ignore him both times. “What has gotten into that boy?”Dean cringed when Dad turned, and resisted the urge to cover his ears when the man barked, “Samuel Winchester! You get up here in seven seconds or you’re getting a spanking!”Oh, shit. The word. Dean’s face burned. Sam froze for about a millisecond before scrambling to the front porch. Bobby cocked an eyebrow under his hat.“You back to that, then?”“Works, doesn’t it?” Dad replied gruffly, taking a hold of Sam’s arm and smacking the boy’s ass several times in quick succession. Dean saw his brother’s face darken as he put his hands defensively behind him. “Apologize to Bobby,” Dad ordered.“M’sorry,” Sam grunted before pulling out of his father’s hold and trudging into the house.Bobby turned to Dean. “You’d do it again?” he asked. “Really?”  
Dean shrugged. “I didn’t say Sammy would, did I?” He saw his father’s face fall for an instant out of the side of his eye and he immediately felt terrible about it. “Not that Sam-”“Singer, you got any grub?” Dad cut him off, slinging an arm over his old friend’s shoulder and guiding him back into the house. Dean followed, trying to remind himself that he wasn’t puking right now, that there wasn’t a terrible pain in his head - and these were good things.Focus on the good things, he told himself. Sam’s bitchfit will wear off soon enough and this little battle will be over and done with.***Bobby fed and watered them. Sam didn’t talk during dinner, busying himself with slowly chewing the chili until it was a fine mush in his mouth. Dean sat beside him and elbowed him, gave him that look that usually meant “stop being a little bitch, Sam.” Sam just replied by elbowing roughly back, but not so roughly that it was conspicuous to his father or Bobby.Bobby, for his part, seemed sympathetic enough. He didn’t make fun of Sam, or bring up the swats Sam had gotten on the porch, just ruffled his long hair and asked, “You doing okay, there, Sam?” when Sam had sat down at the table - which, in turn, made Sam feel guilty for not listening to Bobby earlier. Bobby was their friend. He had taken care of them when they were in shambles after Dad had died. Bobby wasn’t in any way deserving of Sam’s insolence.Dad made Dean go to bed ridiculously early. It was ten o’clock and Sam was pouring through one of Bobby’s books in the bedroom the boys had shared when they were younger and were sharing again now, when Dean came in scowling with Dad at his heels.“Sam, if you want to keep reading you should go downstairs,” Dad told him.“How come Sam doesn’t have-”“Sam’s not concussed.”Sam got up from the bed, not really interested in hearing the two of them go back and forth on this issue until Dean finally succumbed, as he always did, to Dad’s will.Dad was a controlling jackass. A controlling, disloyal jackass.  
He had liked feeling close to his father, enjoying the several hours he had felt like Dad understood him. He had done something stupid, yes. Sam knew that drinking on the job was an idiotic thing to do...but when Dad hadn’t punished him for it, Sam had felt warm inside. Dad hadn’t been angry or disappointed, had in fact just looked at Sam with compassionate eyes, like he knew why Sam had done it.Dad had, up until last night, been on Sam’s side. And Sam liked having Dad on his side. When Dad was on his side, Sam was less alone. He could be more sure that this thing, whatever the hell it was, this thing among all the other terrible things that threatened everything that Sam was, wasn’t going to get him. If Dad was on his side, then that meant that Dad had faith in Sam, knew that Sam wouldn’t ever be anything that wasn’t what Sam had always been - inherently good, human.And that had all been erased when Dad decided that Sam shouldn’t be left in control of himself. Restricting him from something that required a sense of self-limitation.Which is why, at two o’clock in the morning, when Dad and Bobby were sleeping peacefully and Dean was still snoring softly in his bed, that Sam was in the kitchen drinking Bobby’s beer. It wasn’t that he needed it, and he knew perfectly well that it was an irrational reaction, that on some level Dad was being more than fair in his attempts at discipline, but goddamn it, Sam was angry.He was going to leave these empty bottles out on the counter, a big fuck you to Dad’s so-called parenting. Betrayal. That’s what it felt like. That’s what it was when someone claimed understanding only to treat a guy like a criminal. Well, fuck those people. Fuck Dad. Fuck Dean. Sam knew what he was doing. Sam was in control.Sam was really fucking angry.He slammed the first empty bottle down on the counter, then winced at the sound it made. At least it didn’t break, which was kind of miraculous. How did it not break? Sam wondered tiredly. He looked at the fridge. Maybe one would be enough. He was really just kind of tired now. Yeah, one should be enough. Not drinking to get drunk, just to let Dad know that Sam was in control of Sam, and nobody else was.“Sam, why are you up?”Oh, shit. Sam looked up to see his dad standing in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room.  
“Why are you up, Dad?” Sam returned politely.“I heard a noise...” Dad’s eyes found the bottle. “Sam? Did you drink that?”“I, uh...” No, say no, his mind urged him, then rectified, It would defeat the entire purpose of what you just did but say no anyway. You were pre-law at Stanford for chrissakes, you can talk your way out of this!“Answer me, young man!”“Well according to the law-”That was as far as Sam got before Dad lunged forward, grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him into the living room. The next thing he knew, his pajama pants and boxers were down and he was being hauled roughly over Dad’s knee.Dad’s hand was like fire, and his silence was like Hell.“Stop!” Sam protested, clawing at the couch, trying to scramble away. “Dad, stop!”But Dad just shifted him back into position and kept hammering away. Sam tried not to cry, he tried to be Dean. He thought to himself, be Dean. Just be Dean.But he couldn’t be Dean and so he cried, loud sobs escaping his throat, snot dripping from his nose, tears falling onto the old odorous fabric of Bobby’s twenty-year-old couch.And Dad’s hand still kept raining down on Sam ass, and then his thighs, and Sam was sure he was red as fuck. Red everywhere. Red ass, red face, red neck. “D-Dad!” he finally wailed. And he kept on wailing until Dad finally stopped, brought Sam up to stand on shaky legs. Dad leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and waited until Sam calmed himself down. Sam wanted nothing more than to launch himself into his father’s lap, but he restrained himself for two reasons: 1) that would indicate that Sam actually needed Dad for something and 2) Sam actually did need Dad for something, and Dad might push him away.The man was still silent and he still looked angry and foreboding. Sam gasped for breath, reached down for his underwear and pants.“No,” Dad finally said.“Wha...what?”  
“You haven’t earned those back yet.”Fresh tears sprung to Sam’s eyes. “Why do you hate me?”Dad sighed, reached forward. Sam felt his father’s arms wrap around his waist and then he was in Dad’s lap, hissing at the contact. But Dad shifted him so that he was comfortable, buried his face in Sam’s neck.“You know that’s bullshit, Sammy. I know you know that’s bullshit.”They sat like that for a long time, Dad rocking a little, Sam still trying to get his breathing under control. Neither said anything, and Sam started to think how stupid it all was, started to think that he just wanted to go to bed.“Why are you angry with me?” Dad asked.“I don’t know,” Sam replied, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He didn’t really know anymore.“I think you can do a little better than that. We were good just yesterday. We were getting along so well.”“That was before you pointed out that you had a complete lack of faith in me.”Dad pulled back from Sam, a perplexed look on his face. “Funny, I don’t remember saying anything so outlandish.”“You don’t think I’m in control.”“I don’t think you’re out of control, either. Not consistently.”“What’s that supposed to mean?”“You were out of control when you got yourself drunk the other night. You were out of control about twenty minutes ago when you were so angry that you weren’t thinking straight.”“I wasn’t-”“You sure as hell were,” Dad growled. “I restricted you for three weeks because you need consequences. You needed discipline. I needed to know that you wouldn’t do it again, that you would restrain yourself. If not for you, then out of fear of what I would do to you if I ever found you knocking them back on the job again. Clearly restriction doesn’t work with you.”  
“Does that mean I’m no longer on-”“That means you’re going four fucking weeks, little boy, and if I catch you with so much as an alcoholic chocolate, you’re getting your backside warmed. If you want me to have confidence that you can keep yourself in control, you’re going to have to give me good reason.”“You don’t think I can?”“I know you can. I don’t know if you will. It’s not about ability, Sammy. You’re my son and I goddamn well know that you can do almost anything. It’s what you choose to do that’s going to instill my confidence that you’re always going to do the right thing.”Sam went quiet. Dad gave him time. “You disappointed in me?”“A little. I thought you were more mature than this. I thought you were above this little teenaged rebellion gig.”Sam swallowed. “M’sorry, Dad.”“I just want us to be alright again, Sammy. Are we alright?” Sam nodded. “Good.”Dad let Sam put his pants back on, followed the boy upstairs. He tucked Sam into the tiny bed, pressed a kiss to the back of his head.“I don’t want any more of this nonsense from you,” Dad whispered. Dean was three feet away, undoubtedly pretending to be asleep.“Yessir,” Sam mumbled.“Good boy.” A warm hand smoothed over Sam’s head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”“Night, Dad.”Dad shut the door quietly behind him. Sam listened to his footsteps fade away. He turned his head to the side to see Dean’s open eyes glinting at him.“Dude, that sounded awful,” he whispered. “What did you do?”Sam groaned, turned onto his other side and closed his eyes.  
“Aw, c’mon, Sammy...Sammy? I’ve been in this bed forever, man, you gotta give me some entertainment...”Dean prattled on. Sam slept like the dead.


	17. Chapter 17

“That was some kind of hollerin’ I heard last night, Winchester.”John looked up from the paper to watch Bobby shuffle around the kitchen. He took a sip of his coffee, swallowed at his leisure. “Boy was drinking your beer.”Bobby looked at him. “They’ve always been welcome to help themselves.”He had that judgmental look on his face that used to have John flying at him with words and fists. It was the crux of their relationship - Bobby being the sentimental bastard, John being the hard ass, both of ‘em stubborn as hell knowing they had to get the job done. Every action, every conversation always led to one of three possible conclusions - a futile argument, the old fashioned fisticuffs, or, on some occasions, an ass full of buckshot. All of these incidents led to hard feelings. “Sam got drunk on the job a few nights ago.”A sharp intake of breath. That’s right, you old son of a bitch, he thought. I have my reasons. “You beat his ass for him then?”“No. Then I was the gentle and understanding father you seem to believe I always needed to be. Kid’s been having a hell of a time dealing with all this demon shit. I told him no alcohol for three weeks. That sound fair to you?” Bobby nodded slowly. “Last night I come down here and find him with an empty bottle. Boy’s too old for deliberate disobedience.”Bobby picked up the coffee pot, started pouring himself a cup. “Some might say the boy’s too old to be put over his daddy’s knee.”John eyed him over his own mug of coffee. “Might you say that, Singer?”Bobby grunted. “I might say you gotta give ‘im what he needs.” He huffed. “Drinkin’ on the job...”With all the looks he and Bobby had shared over the years, it was on very few occasions that their eyes met as they were meeting now - like they were snapping into place with a satisfying click. Before, these looks had only taken place when John had been able to overlook his own ego to see Bobby’s eternal sagacity. Now it was Bobby who was able to look past himself to see John for something more than a hard ass, something less impulsive.“I’m his father,” John said, and he’d said it before. “I know what he needs.” And that hadn’t always been true, but he could see that Bobby was accepting it for   
truth at the moment.Bobby eventually made toast, handed John a plate which he absently nibbled on while rifling through the paper. It was comfortable here, sitting with his old friend at this table he’d known for two decades, since the boys were very small and John was still very green in all aspects of his life. Despite their multiple feuds, Bobby had always been there, solid and steady when everything else was chaos.“Morning.” The hunters looked up to see Dean walking into the kitchen. The boy’s mouth stretched out in a yawn, his bare feet padded against the hard floor. He snatched a piece of toast from his father’s plate. “Toast. Awesome.”The kid stuffed it in his mouth, almost choked on it when John wrapped his arms around T-shirt-adorned waist, pulled him down to sit on his father’s lap. “Where are your manners?” John asked as Dean swallowed.“Left ‘em somewhere back East, I think,” Dean replied and he looked down at his dad before glancing over Bobby. John felt the boy squirm. “Dad, haven’t we talked about public affection?” But despite the evident heat in his cheeks, Dean didn’t attempt to get up. Instead, he stuffed more toast in his mouth, swallowed.“Bobby, have you noticed that Dad’s turned into a total girl?”A chuckle escaped Bobby’s mouth. “Well, now that you point it out...”“Shut it, Singer,” John growled, though he hugged the boy tighter to him. “How’s the head, champ?”“S’alright,” Dean said honestly. “I think I might even be ready for you to bump my bedtime up a whole hour. Maybe six. With a trip to the bar thrown in there somewhere. And maybe a gentlemen’s club.”John snorted. Gentlemen’s club. “Right, kid. Whatever.” The kid was insane if he thought he was going anywhere near alcohol or potential rough activity for a few weeks now.“How did you get concussed?” Bobby asked curiously. “Y’all never exactly got around to telling me.”It was true. Dean had evaded the question the night before, and when John had opened his mouth to tell his old friend about the weathervane, he’d received a sharp kick and a whine from across the table, which in turn had him glaring and spewing idle threats.“Gordon Walker beaned me with a rifle,” Dean answered easily, shifting in John’s  
lap and reaching for the last piece of toast.Bobby’s face scrunched up with skepticism. John hid a smile behind Dean’s shoulder. “That’s it? That’s what all that carrying on was about last night?”“He’s a crazy fuck-”“Language, Dean.”“-who got the drop on me. Sorry, Dad. I happen to find it embarrassing. It was only a mild concussion. Don’t know what Dad’s making such a big deal about.” John watched in awe as his son nonchalantly reached for his father’s coffee mug and took a swig. The sheer brass of this kid. He exchanged a significant look with Bobby. The older man’s lip twitched.“That the whole story then, Dean?”“Of course it is,” Dean replied. “Isn’t it, Dad?”“Why, of course, son. I don’t know what I’m making such a big deal about, either,” John replied, before gripping the boy around the hips with large hands and bodily standing him up.“You moving?” Dean asked, shifting uneasily.“No, I just thought you needed to change positions,” John replied. He reached up and took the mug from Dean’s hands. “You were looking a little too comfortable there.” The green eyes widened and the kid looked for all the world like a rabbit ready to flee, but John was quick, grabbing the wrist and upending the boy backside-up over his lap.“Dad!” Dean yelled in indignation.“You know how I feel about lying, kiddo,” John told him. He planted five mild swats on the boy’s pajama-clad behind before letting Dean push himself to his feet. The boy’s face was bright red and he grumbled as his hands instinctively went behind him to rub, then froze, obviously realizing that would be even more humiliating. “Besides, you’re the one making a big deal over nothing. A weathervane fell on your head. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”“A weathervane?” Bobby asked, hiding a smile behind his hand. “So the Gordon Walker thing...”“That happened, too. Concussed twice in two weeks. He had to go to the hospital for the weathervane incident. Got his head scanned.” John took in   
Dean’s glare. “And still he thinks I’m making too big a deal out of things...”Dean huffed. “I’ve banged mothers who’ve worried less.”“Dean...” John let the threat taper off as he looked at his son. The stiff stance, the red face, the wounded pride...aw, hell. “Go get your brother up. Bobby’ll make you guys some eggs.”“He will, will he?” Bobby grumbled, obviously trying to ignore the hopeful look on Dean’s face. “Maybe Bobby has work to do.”“Bobby, why are you talking about yourself in the third person?” Dean asked. “Somebody might think that you don’t want to make us eggs...” “Just go get your brother, you idgit.”And Dean scampered off, hollering gleefully at the top of his lungs, “Wake up, Sammy! We’re gettin’ eggs!”***Sam cringed when his ass hit the wooden seat. Dean snickered. Sam flung a forkful of scrambled egg across the table. It was lucky that Dad and Bobby were out in the junkyard, looking at some piece of crap car.“Dude. What did you do?” Dean asked for the third time that morning. He’d asked when he’d woken Sam up, and again when Sam had come walking stiffly out of the bathroom. Sam wondered if his brother would ever stop asking, or if Sam was going to have to get the duct-tape out of the kitchen drawer.Dean used to do that to Sam when they were kids and Sam used to ask too many questions. Why is Dad gone again, Dean? he remembered asking over and over again, and finally Dean would lose it, break out the tape. Sam remembered the first time, when he had made the mistake of ripping the shit off his mouth too fast - just do it real quick like a band-aid, he remembered thinking. And it had hurt and he’d cried out and Bobby had come running.“Sam, you there?” Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face.Sam blinked, scowled. “Dad’s an ass. Doing that to me where Bobby could hear.”Dean rolled his eyes. “I got it in front of Bobby today. You have no right to complain. And it didn’t even hurt...so from the sounds you were makin’ last night, I’m going to assume that you did something really stupid.”  
Sam was actually of the mindset that he had, indeed, done something really stupid, which was why he was in no hurry to tell Dean. He didn’t exactly feel up to his brother’s berating this morning, not with his sore ass and his lingering worry that Dad was still angry with him. He hadn’t seen Dad, yet. By the time Sam had followed his brother into the kitchen, both Dad and Bobby were already outside, and two plates of egg and toast had been sitting on the table.“Besides,” Dean continued, apparently realizing that Sam wasn’t going to respond. “It’s not like Bobby gives half a crap. He’s done it to us before, too.”“He’s done it to you, before,” Sam corrected. “When you were 14 and went joy-riding in his car. Bobby’s never done it to me.”Dean snorted. “Well, that actually amazes me. So when I started going on hunts with Dad and we’d leave you here...you didn’t bitch and moan at Bobby every second of every day? What makes him so special, eh?”Sam shoved his mouth full of eggs. He wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.Dad and Bobby came in while Sam was washing the dishes. Dean had walked off to the living room, saying that there was a Hitchcock marathon on TV that he just had to watch, and since Sam wasn’t nursing a concussed head that meant that Sam was more qualified to do the manual labor.“Sam,” Bobby gruffly greeted him, patting him on the back with a firm hand. “Look at you. Washin’ the dishes while your good for nothin’ brother lazes about somewhere.” Sam grinned. “Where is he, anyway?”“Hitchcock marathon.”Bobby grunted, lumbered off to find Dean. Dad took his coat off and threw it over the back of one of the chairs, moved over to Sam. He smelt of sawdust and steel, and he put a cold hand on the back of Sam’s neck and squeezed before taking it away and grabbing a dry cloth. Sam felt some of his earlier tension flowaway.“You drying?” he asked.“I can be a hospitable guest, too,” Dad replied lightly and Sam smirked, knowingthat Dad just wasn’t known for being a hospitable guest at all. “You feelin’ more like yourself this morning, Sammy?”Sam shrugged, handed him a plate. “Guess so. The eggs were good.”  
“Bobby made ‘em. I made the toast.”“You manned the toaster?” Sam feigned surprise. “Wow, Dad...I’m so proud.”“Smartass,” Dad grumbled, but Sam could tell that the man was actually pleased.They washed and dried in comfortable silence. Or at least, Sam thought it was comfortable. When he glanced at Dad, who was placing a plate very slowly and stiffly into one of the upper cabinets, it became clear that something was going on.“Something up?” Sam asked.Dad sighed, put his hands on the counter and leaned, like he was too tired to stand on his own all of sudden. He bent his head, stared into the sink.“Dad?” Sam prompted, eyebrows knit in concern.“Bobby and I were talking,” Dad said, and then he stopped, as if he needed time to recover.About what? About me? About Dean? About the demon? About you? Are you leaving? Goddamn it, tell me. Tellmetellmetellme, Sam thought. But he didn’t say it, he restrained himself, waited patiently for his father to continue.“That...connection, you and Dean have. Have you felt it recently?” Sam unconsciously let out a breath. “Not recently,” he replied honestly. “Not since Ava, I don’t think.”And Dad peaked at him over an arm. “And why do you think that is?”Sam shrugged. “Because you’re here. And I’m here. And I guess he’s probably finally convinced himself that it’s going to stay that way. He’s content.”“Ava felt him, too?” Dad prodded.“He was irritated that I had left. She hit me and didn’t understand why. But it was obviously because Dean wanted to hit me.”Dad nodded, more to himself than to Sam. Sam had been wondering when Dad was going to bring this up again. It had been a while, and he hadn’t really inquired into it. Sam had guessed it was because Dad was afraid of it - that he couldn’t consider the possibility that both of his sons were somehow   
supernaturally linked. And when Dad was afraid, he either acted out in anger or didn’t act at all.“Bobby and I were talking...outside. And we called Missouri.”Sam raised an eyebrow. “Why?”“Her expertise is kind of invaluable, Sam.”Sam nodded. “Right. Well, uh...what did you guys talk about?”“Missouri thinks we should encourage the connection, strengthen it. And Bobby kind of agrees with her.”“And what do you think?”“I think I don’t understand it, I don’t know where it came from, and that scares me. Yes, you can feel it, but Ava can feel it, too. If Ava can feel it, then who else can feel it? It could make Dean vulnerable.”“Or any one who feels it could be taken off guard. I was taken off guard. Ava was taken off guard,” Sam countered. “You suddenly feel something very strongly and you have no idea where it comes from? It can be debilitating, Dad.”Dad nodded, pushed himself away from the counter. “It could be a weapon. It could be protection for you and your brother. It could be. But I don’t want it used against you.”Sam stepped closer to his dad, put a big hand on the man’s back. He didn’t lean into him, didn’t do any of that childish tucking of the head into the neck like he’d been doing for so many weeks. Now, they had to be equals. Because, inevitably,this was what they had made their goal. This had to do with the hunt. This was the reason that had had Dad on the floor, begging Sam to shoot him in the heart. Sacrifice for their cause. Dad couldn’t be made vulnerable or incapacitated by worry for his sons.“Sometimes we have to take risks,” Sam told him. It was cliche, but sometimes in this life, Winchesters had to say things that had been said many times before.Sam had actually always considered it one of the many downsides to being a demon-hunter. “Sometimes we have to play their game in order to win.”***Dean wasn’t on board. He didn’t want to be some psychic freak experiment. But Dad had said they should try it, his tone firm but still implying a bit of   
reluctance. And then he had ruffled Dean’s hair and asked him something that Dad hardly ever said to either one of his children.“Please, buddy?” And Dad had sat on the couch, directly above where Dean was sitting on the floor, and Dean had leaned against his father’s leg like he used to do when he was a kid, when he used to feel not only reassured but validated by this gesture from the man he virtually hero-worshipped. “Fine,” Dean grumbled. “When do we start?”“Soon,” Dad told him, fingers trailing through the spiky hair. And then Bobby had sat on the other end of the couch and Sam had sprawled on the floor next to Dean.“What is this, then? Family TV day?”Nobody responded. Bobby switched Rear Window to some hunting show where three guys in hicked-out camouflage were stalking an unsuspecting grizzly bear.“Seriously?” Dean asked, his voice belying his distress. “C’mon, Bobby, I hate these shows. That bear didn’t do anything to those jackasses.”“Shut your mouth and watch it, Dean,” Bobby replied, though when Dean looked at the man, he saw sympathy in his eyes.“And watch your mouth,” Dad reminded him.“A jackass is a male donkey,” Sam said. “It’s not really a...” But Sam trailed off, and Dean was pretty sure it had something to do with the murderous look Dad was probably throwing him.Dean continued to watch the show with a burning intensity. He wasn’t bored because he was angry as hell. He just wanted to be able to jump into the television screen so he could shoot those bastards before they got to the bear. Maybe the bear had a cub somewhere. Did they think of that? No. They just wanted to mount its head on a wall. Because they were evil hick fucks-They shot the bear. Dean knew it had been coming, but why? He shifted his head against Dad’s leg, feeling a little sad which only contributed to his anger. His hands were clenched into tight fists and they were shaking a little, so he tucked them under his legs to hide them. There was no reason for Dad or Bobby or Sam to see him so affected by a dumb television show, after all.“Those unbelievable fucks,” Sam gritted out. Dean snapped his head over to his brother. Sam was shaking in cold fury. Since when did Sam care about animal   
hunting, anyway? Dean remembered when they were younger, when Dean was sixteen and Sam was twelve and he’d switched the TV on to one of these shows and started griping about it.It’s just something people do, Dean, Sam had told him, rolling his eyes. It used to be for survival, you know.“Samuel!”“They killed the goddamn bear!” Sam snapped. “Who does a thing like that!”“Dean,” Bobby said, his voice low and soothing, his eyes on Dean. “That bear’s been dead for a while now, why don’t you calm down?”“Me?” Dean demanded. “Sam’s the one pitching a fit.”“You’re the one feeling the injustice of the situation,” Dad replied, and he leaned down so his face came into contact with Dean’s shoulder, his hands grabbing Dean’s wrists and wedging Dean’s fists out from beneath his thighs.“You’ve already started...” Dean trailed off, watching Dad manually unfurl his fists.“You really are stoic, aren’t you, son?” Dad asked. “I never would’ve thought you were feeling it that much.”“I don’t pitch fits...” Dean said softly, still looking at his red-faced little brother. “Sammy’s more vocal.”“Just because I don’t keep all that crap inside of me,” Sam grumbled, taking a deep breath. “You were totally angrier over that bear than you were over me leaving.”“I was plenty angry over you leaving,” Dean snapped. “But when I found you I was more relieved than anything else. Besides, Ava hit you because of me, remember? And how the hell did you all know this would get to me?”“Sam, did you feel Dean’s anger when this.. Ava hit you?” Bobby asked Dean watched his brother think. He used to think it was cute, though he would never admit it to Sam, whenever his face scrunched up like that and he thought really hard. The little geek, he thought fondly.Finally, Sam shook his head. “I’ve never really felt anything that Dean’s directed towards me. I mean, you know...intuitive knowledge and all, but not   
like...actually feeling it.”Dean made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan. “How is exploring this even worth it, then? If I can’t force my displeasure psychically upon Sammy?”“It could still hold up as a form of communication,” Bobby grunted. “Your daddy and I will call Missouri again, let her know what we’ve learned. She’ll tell us where we should go from here.”“And nobody ever answered me about-”“You always make comments whenever you feel an animal has been done an injustice, Dean. It’s no secret,” Dad told him.“Sometimes, people who emotionally detach themselves from other people start feeling more for animals,” Sam added knowledgeably. Then, obviously knowing that Dean would enjoy the reference, “Like Tony Soprano and Pie-Oh-My.”Dean felt his lips lift. Living life from one motel to the next wasn’t so bad when most of them came equipped with free HBO. “Goddamn Ralph. He totally deserved what he got.”The rest of the day passed by pretty uneventfully. Sam and Dad were getting along really well again (for them), and Bobby let Dean work on one of the cars he was restoring. Still feeling saddened over watching a bear shot and killed, Dean snuck Rumsfeld some table scraps out after dinner. Unfortunately, Bobby caught him in the act and used it as an excuse to order Dean into the garage to clean his guns. Dad thought this was a really good idea, and when Sam let another swear slip, Dad sent him in to join Dean with, according to Dean’s acute hearing, a healthy smack on the ass.“They’re just living it up in there, aren’t they?” Dean asked sourly, eyes on the door that led into the kitchen. “Bet they’ve broken out the strippers and beer...”“Ew, Dean.”“What? When I’m old, there’ll be strippers and beer everywhere.”“But this is Dad. And Bobby, for chrissakes. You can’t talk about Dad and Bobby like they’re...like they’re...you.”Dean shrugged. “They’re people, too.”“Imagine Dad having sex.”  
Dean’s eyes drifted to his little brother. He lifted the unloaded pistol in his hand. “Dude, I will shoot you with this.”“With that? There’s no bullets in that, Dean.”“But there can be,” Dean replied smartly. “You better sleep with one eye open, Sammy.”His head was already starting to hurt again by the time Dad came out and said it was time for bed.“Doesn’t Sam have to go to bed, too?” Dean asked, putting his last gun away. “It hurts my pride...going to bed before my little brother.” He knew this wouldn’t hold up in the Court of Dad, of course. What with that impromptu spanking he’d received earlier in front of Bobby, Dean pretty much knew now that in matters of health and obedience Dad didn’t give half a shit about his pride.“Sammy can go to bed, too, if he doesn’t feel like cleaning any more guns.”Sam looked up all puppy-dog eyed and Dean knew that this conversation was just going to go in whichever direction his little brother wanted it to. There was no way it wouldn’t.“If I finish cleaning the guns, can I stay up?”Dad’s face visibly softened. Oh, good Lord. It was like a fucking roller coaster with these two.“Sure, kiddo.”“Good. ‘Cause Dean threatened to shoot me in my sleep.”Dad snorted. “Oh, he did, did he?”“You should’ve heard the vulgarity coming out of his mouth, Dad,” Dean protested as Dad pushed him into the house. “I was doing you a favor by emulating you at that particular moment.”“Emulating? Dean...I’ve never threatened to shoot you or your brother.”“No, but you make a lot of idle threats these days,” Dean told him, allowing himself to be guided up the stairs.“Do I?” Dad asked. “Maybe I should rectify that.”  
“No, it’s alright, really,” Dean assured him. “Idle threats are...good parenting, in my opinion. Learning my lessons one threat at a time.” Then he rushed into the bathroom to take care of his nightly needs.Dad had the covers down when he walked into the bedroom, a glass of water on the night stand and pills in his hand. Girl, Dean thought, even as his head prickled with pain.“When will the headaches stop?” he asked, kicking off his jeans and throwing himself into the bed.“Soon, I hope,” Dad replied, handing him the pills. “You need to start telling me when your head starts hurting. I don’t like having to guess, Dean.”“Yessir.”Dad covered him up and soon Dean was asleep. He woke up a few hours later when Sam was trying his best to be quiet, slipping into his own bed.“Sammy?”“Go back to sleep, Dean.”“How come you felt it so much when I was angry about the bear? I know you can’t tell, cause I’m so manly and all, but I feel stuff all the time.”Sam didn’t respond for a long time, but Dean heard the telltale Sammy-is-thinking breathing. The breaths came out faster and more shallow than regular Sam breathing.“I kind of...stayed open to you, I guess. I knew what I was trying to do...and it was the first time I felt you really angry at something. I’d never felt you direct anything outwards before.”“Outwards...what the hell does that mean?” And Sam was quiet again, for a really long time, and this time Dean wasn’t so patient. “What the hell does that mean, Sammy?” He heard his kid brother suck in a breath. Oh, this was going to be big, Dean could tell. And probably embarrassing. And - “Usually I only feel it when you’re hating yourself,” Sam admitted.Well, fuck.“Stay out of my fucking emotions.” His volume was just a little too loud, but he   
didn’t really care.“It’s not like I was trying to,” Sam replied in a slightly raised voice. “It’s just when you’re feeling that way, its kind of overwhelming and whenever its been happening I’ve been thinking about you and pretty much only you...and it just...it comes, Dean. It just comes like a freakin’ tidal wave or something.” Sam sounded helpless. Dean didn’t care.“Well stop thinkin’ of me and only me, then.”“You’re my brother, you asshole. How the hell am I supposed to just stop thinking of you?”“I don’t know, but you better fucking try!”Sam’s response was cut off by the door swinging open and the light flickering on. Dean blinked, shielded his eyes with a hand, the forgotten ache in his head pounded deplorably away at the sudden onslaught.“What the hell is going on?” Dad growled.But Dean wasn’t in the mood for this, he flopped back onto his bed, turned towards the wall. He was Dean Winchester. He was handsome and charming, a good hunter and a good lay. He took care of Sammy and Sammy was alive. He took care of Dad, and Dad was dead, but Dean brought him back again. Dean was awesome. Dean was all sorts of fucking awesome.Then why did he feel so fucking worthless just because his stupid pain in the ass little brother had to go and point it out?“I better hear an answer soon-”“Dean, please.” Sam’s voice was all choked, and Dean hated that his brother was feeling this. It really didn’t get much worse than this.“What’s going on?” Dad asked tiredly. “Sam?”“Is it a proximity thing?” Dean asked, his voice calm. “If you’re not in the same room, can you still feel it?”“Dean...” Sam could only really say his name, now. And the kid was crying. And Dean felt even worse for it.“Dad, can Sam sleep with you?” Dean requested, even as he heard the telltale squeak of the mattress as Dad sat next to his youngest.  
“Dad, Dean-”“Shut the fuck up, Sammy. My head fucking hurts and I want to be left the fuck alone.”“Dean,” Dad growled, but it ended there. Sam must have shushed him somehow. And eventually, Dean was left alone. He felt Dad’s hand brush along his side, heard Sam trail Dad out of the room. Dean shut his eyes and tried to think back to the days when his head didn’t hurt, but that didn’t work. Headaches weren’t a state of mind. He puked a few hours later, dry heaved for awhile after that. Dad came into the bathroom, rubbed his back, put him back to bed. Sam was asleep, Dad promised him. Sam was fine.“That’s good,” Dean mumbled. “I still wanna be left alone.”Dad was still there when Dean finally fell asleep. Outside, the sky was breaking dawn.


	18. Chapter 18

John woke up in a twin bed roughly two hours after falling asleep. The ancient analog alarm clock placed on the ramshackle night stand told him that it was 8:43 in the morning and a peek farther to his left revealed Dean’s broad back. His boy was turned to the wall, breathing deeply and rhythmically, soft sighs entering the air of the small room every few seconds. Sleep. Good. Maybe the kid would sleep this thing away, whatever it was. Whatever was causing Sam to freak out, because God knew that John was lost.He quietly lifted himself from the bed and padded out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him. He hoped that Dean would sleep at least until noon. The boy used to like doing that when he was seventeen and his father was in one of his moods of rare and inexplicable indulgence. Usually, John would have both boys up at the crack of dawn, have them running, have them working, straining,training. Fighting. Sam’s little face settled in silent fury, jaw clenched, teeth chomping on his tongue. The wave of memories had the hunter leaning against Bobby’s peeling wallpaper. He closed his eyes. Nothing made him feel older and more exhausted than thinking of the past. He shook his head, willing the thoughts away. Continued on. Opened the door to the third room, but Sam wasn’t in the bed. The bed was messy and unmade and despairingly empty.So was the bathroom. Sam wasn’t taking a piss.John headed down the stairs. Bobby was in the kitchen, paper on the table, coffee to his lips.“Sam’s in the study,” Singer said before John could open his mouth. And he didn’t look up. It was one of those things about Bobby Singer that annoyed him to no end - the way he didn’t have to look up, the way he always knew what was coming, even from John who prided himself on catching people off guard. “Looks like a raccoon. Tried to get ‘im to go back to bed, but he said it was important.”“You ask him what was so important about it?”Bobby grunted. “‘Course I asked him. Boy about took my head off.”“You don’t have to take that from him.”And finally Bobby looked up at him with implacable eyes. “‘Course I don’t. And I don’t need you to tell me that. You get him back to bed, then you tell me what in the hell happened last night.”  
It was one of those thing about Bobby Singer that annoyed him to no end - the way he could sometimes make John feel so inferior as to have to bite back a ‘yessir’. Their friendship may have been erratic, but John wasn’t given to feeling like fellow hunters were anything more than his equal - even Bobby, who had taught him a helluva lot.So he inclined his head once towards his host and went to the study.Sam was sitting on the floor, his eyes wide open and there were books stacked around him, his eyes scanning quickly over the one in his lap, his fingers twitching to turn the pages.“Sammy boy.”“Go away.”“Excuse me?”“M’trying to read. I can’t concentrate if you’re standing there staring at me.”John was too tired for his post-hell-good-daddy persona. He wasn’t going to ask,wasn’t going to try to understand. Sam wasn’t going to find anything that was going to help the situation. Not in Bobby’s library, anyway.He pulled the book from Sam’s lap, ignoring the foul-mouthed protests that followed.“You’re going back to bed.”“The hell I-”“It’s been just over a day, Sam.” John sighed when the kid just looked at him in confusion. “You’re sitting too comfortably already, aren’t you? Maybe I’ve been going too easy-”“No!” “No?” John asked, and leaning down he grabbed his tall son under the arms, bodily hefted the kid to a standing position. “You don’t think so? Because I’m being far more tolerant than I feel right now, kiddo. I’m thinking there’s way too much back talk coming out of your mouth.”“This is about Dean!” Sam erupted, pushing his father roughly away. “Not your control issues.”  
And even though the boy continued to fight him, John managed to the wrangle the kid over to Bobby’s old leather recliner sitting in the corner of the room, managed to haul him down over his lap and divest Sam of his pajama pants with a single pull.Sam swore loudly at the first crack of John’s hand, continued to bitch through the bearable portion of the spanking.“Stop it!” came the eventual protest as John continued to paddle the pink bottom with the flat of his hand. John was pretty sure tiredness won out before pain when Sam started crying and he let up immediately, pulled the pants up, ran a hand over his son’s back.“There somethin’ in those books that’s gonna help Dean, Sammy?” John asked gruffly.“I don’t know.” The boy sniffled and John’s lips twitched fondly. “Maybe...”“Maybe? What’s wrong with your brother, exactly?”“What do you mean what’s wrong with my brother?” Sam asked, voice trembling with tears. “He hates himself. He hates himself so much that he can’t bear it.” John tensed and paused and lacked movement in a stiff kind of way for several seconds. Then he tugged lightly on his son’s shirt and Sam took the hint and got to his feet, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I can’t bear it, either,”the kid added.“I know, baby.” Though what the boy thought these particular books could do about that kind of escaped John. Unless...”You were looking for a way to sever the connection?”“No!” Sam said to quickly. Then, “Maybe...” And finally, with a guilty expression aimed at his own fidgeting feet, the truth: “Yes.” John opened his mouth to respond, but Sam was quick to cut him off, “I don’t see how feeling like shit is going to help us fight. It could only hinder us, Dad. And the only reason the connection is there is because I’m connected to the goddamn demon and Dean made a deal with a goddamn demon and we’re freakin’ Winchesters so we’re cursed to Hell. We can’t trust evil things.”“You’re absolutely right,” John agreed. “We can’t trust evil things.”Sam raised an eyebrow. “Then why the hell are you pushing this?”“Because I don’t think this was a deliberate consequence of Dean making the deal. I think this was a side-effect that nobody bargained on.” He hadn’t actually  
considered this prospect until the words left his mouth, but once they did, John realized he believed them to be true. He didn’t think a demon could really feign anything between his boys, whether the effect was good or bad, or even if it meant that there were other people out there tuning into it. One look at Sam’s tired, frustrated face, however, informed John that this reasoning wasn’t enough for his youngest. “Severing the connection isn’t the answer, Sammy.”“Then what is?” Sam demanded. “Dean’s mad at me and I feel like shit. He doesn’t want me knowing what he’s feeling and I don’t like feeling what he’s feeling, so how the hell isn’t-”“We need to make Dean feel better.” John interruption was quiet but firm and Sam fell silent, chewed his bottom lip and lifted his eyes to the ceiling in contemplation.“How’re we gonna do that?” the boy finally asked, sarcasm tinting his voice. “Take him to a therapist?” John reached over and grabbed a hold of Sam’s shirt, tugged the boy forward a step before laying a solid smack down on the already warm behind. “Ow!”“You leave it to me, Sammy,” John said calmly. “And you just treat your brother as you normally treat him. It’s only going to rile him up if we start walking on eggshells around him.”Sam nodded, but scowled, rubbing his rear. “What was that for?”“Swearing, general bad attitude...you know, your usual,” John replied nonchalantly. “Now you get your butt up to bed. I don’t want to see you down here for another three hours, clear?”The kid mumbled a sullen “yessir” before dragging himself off to his room. John sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. You leave it to me, Sammy, he’d said. What had he been thinking? What the fuck did he know about making people feel better? A brief image of empty booze bottles and dancing whores fluttered through John’s mind but he shook it away. That would be Dean’s low self-esteem, he reminded himself. That would be Dean’s unhealthy coping method...He groaned, buried his face into his hands. Dean’s low self-esteem was something that John knew, had always known, was at the fault of John himself. What the fuck was he going to do?“What’s wrong with you, Winchester?” Bobby growled from the doorway. John didn’t look up. “Never mind, then. I don’t care. Just get the fuck in the kitchen and tell me what the hell’s goin’ on.”  
John glared at Bobby Singer’s retreating back, bit back words that would surely result in him standing at the bad end of a loaded gun. Then he got to his feet and followed his old friend into the kitchen.***Sam’s ass still stung three hours later, but only a little bit. Dean was sitting up in the opposite bed, his hair tousled, hands swiping at tired eyes. Sam glanced at the clock on the nightstand, raised his eyebrows in surprise.“Dude, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”“You’re one o’clock in the afternoon.”“Shut up, Dean.”“You shut up,” Dean replied good-naturedly, and he got up from his bed and stretched long and hard, his mouth opening in a wide yawn. “I want me some brunch.”Sam snorted. “Eating eggs in the afternoon doesn’t qualify as brunch, Dean.”“Dude, stop saying my name like that. You end every sentence with Dean. And it’s not even like you’re just saying it, it’s like you’re whining it.”“Am not,” Sam muttered.“Are too,” Dean countered. “Whiner.” He ruffled Sam’s hair on his way out of the room and Sam watched him go with a scowl. Dean was feeling better this afternoon, it seemed. Sam couldn’t feel anything amiss, anyway, so if Dean wasn’t feeling better then maybe he’d figured out a way to hide it. The latter wasn’t such a hard thing to imagine - if Dad was the king of emotional repression, then Dean was the prince.Sam took his sweet time getting out of bed, and then he took his sweet time in the shower. When he finally got downstairs, Dad and Bobby were seated across the kitchen table from one another looking over some papers and Dean was shoving half a hot dog down his throat.“Bobby made hot dogs,” he unnecessarily informed Sam, unabashedly displaying the food in his mouth.“Manners,” Bobby growled, but Dean only grinned at him, teeth littered with meat and mustard. Dad smirked and tapped the older boy on the back of the head.  
“Mind Bobby, son.”“Yessir.”“That’s not brunch,” Sam pointed out, but Dean just shrugged and shoved the rest of his hot dog in his mouth.Not too much later, Dad and Bobby herded them outside. It was warm for the end of November, and Dad went for a run. Dean helped Bobby with a car. Sam just kind of stood outside wanting to go back in. Inside was where the books were. Sam was good at books. He was good at running, too, but he’d had enough father/son time that morning to last him the rest of the day. He was absolute shit at cars, so he wasn’t even going to try to touch that. He was kind of surprised that Dad and Bobby were diverting from yesterday’s exercises, but he guessed that Dad was thinking less about work and more about Dean, which would have been unusual a few months ago, but was pretty normal now. He settled for sitting down on the grass and watching Dean and Bobby work. Dean’sflow of smartass remarks was keeping Bobby amused and the older man’s coughs would sometimes turn into chuckles and there was the firm clank of metal against metal and the squeal of a wrench and the bang of a hammer and these were all sounds that put Sam at ease as he stared lazily off into the sky. Rumsfeld trotted over to him at one point, laid down beside Sam, put his big head on Sam’s thigh and Sam tried not to giggle like a little girl because it tickled. He knew that if he giggled like a little girl that Dean would magically hear it and never let him forget it, not even when Sam was 40 years old and Dean was 44.“Who asked you?” Dean’s voice was loud and incensed, startling Sam’s drooping eyes wide open. Rumsfeld rose lazily on his paws and licked Sam’s face. Sam pushed him away, watching as Bobby quietly tried to calm Dean down. Dad came running out of the woods just in time to hear Dean let loose a string of swears unfit for a sailor.“The hell’s gotten into your brother?”Sam shrugged, not taking his eyes from the scene, wincing when Bobby grabbed Dean and walloped his backside several times before pushing him toward the house. The older hunter stayed by the junk car, looking tired, hurt, and more than a little angry. After a moment he motioned for Dad.“Go inside, Sammy.”Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He dashed into the house to find Dean in the kitchen, banging a lackluster fist against a countertop. Anger and embarrassment and guilt, the sudden emotions overwhelmed Sam and he had to  
sit down and breathe because if he didn’t then he was certain that he would have cried like a little girl, and if he cried like a little girl then Dean would never let him forget it, not even was Sam was 53 and Dean was 57.“What’s wrong, man?” Sam asked, his voice far more calm than he felt. Dean just shook his head and after a minute, looked out the window towards the junkyard, where Dad and Bobby were undoubtedly still standing. “Why’d you go ballistic on Bobby?” Sam asked again. Dean finally looked at him, anger and annoyance visible on his face and Sam didn’t feel either of those which could only mean that Sam wasn’t on Dean’s happy list right now.“You need to stay out of my fucking head, Sam.” Sam opened his mouth to argue, to tell Dean that he couldn’t help it, but Dean held up a hand and cut him off. “If you can’t help it, you could at least not go blabbing to Dad and Bobby about it. The last thing I need is those two treating me like a fucking headcase.”“Nobody’s treating you like a headcase,” Sam instantly replied in a tone that could only be called soothing. And he immediately wanted to kick himself.Less than a second later, he realized that he didn’t need to kick himself. Dean would do it for him. Sam wasn’t really sure how he got from the chair to the ground, but Dean had him pinned to the dirty wood floor before Sam could even blink.He closed his eyes, readied himself for a blow. “You’re a brat.” Dean’s voice was tired and his fist wasn’t coming. Sam opened one eye, then the other. “If you’d been born without a dick, Dad probably would’ve given you a pony.”“Get off,” Sam told him.“You’re not better than me.”“I never said I was, you jerk.”“No, you never would, either. But that doesn’t stop you from implying it every chance you get, does it?”“I’ve never-”“You’re always pointing out that you were the one who went to college, had the steady relationship, and that I’m the one who doesn’t live past following Dad’s orders with a dog-like obedience.”  
“I’ve never-”“You always.”It was true, Sam realized. But he never meant anything by it.“Dean, I don’t-”“You do. You mean it, Sam. You think you’re just joking around, but you mean it. You’ve always meant it. You think I’m pathetic and stupid and incapable of original thought.”“I don’t,” Sam said vehemently. He didn’t. He would never think that of Dean. Well, maybe he had sometimes in the past, but that was normal. They were brothers. They were supposed to think cruel things about each other sometimes.Right? “Dean, I’m sorry if-”But Dad and Bobby came in then and Dad hauled Dean off of Sam by the collar of his shirt. Sam watched their retreating backs, kind of glad for the interruption.His apologies wouldn’t have been enough, he knew, and he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to handle that conversation for much longer.***Dad sat on the bed. Dean draped himself over the man’s lap without waiting for the command. He just wanted to get this over with. Maybe after Dad spanked him, he could go back to bed. And maybe when he woke up, it would be time for dinner.“Whoa there, tiger.” Dad grabbed Dean’s sides, guided him back to a standing position.Dean flopped back down. “I don’t want to talk first.”“Well, it’s too bad that you’re not in charge then, because we’re talking.” Dad tried to lift him up again, but Dean stubbornly kept himself melted into the man’s lap, inciting Dad to snarl, “Dean Winchester.”It was tough, but Dean somehow kept himself from wincing. “I mouthed off to Bobby, I pinned Sam. I know what I did wrong. Just get it over with, Dad. I’m not chick-like like you. I’m not into this touchy-feely lets clarify everything with a Full House talk shit. That might work well with Sam, but not with me.”He felt rather than heard Dad sigh, and the man’s hand came to rest on the curve of Dean’s right buttock.  
Finally. They were going to get this shit over with. And Dean could go to sleep. And then maybe it would be time for dinner. And then sleep again.A gentle tap on the ass. And then Dad had him standing again, and Dad himself stood so Dean couldn’t force himself back over. He stood, staring with confused eyes at his father. What the fuck was this?“Dad-”“We’re not done,” Dad assured him. He grabbed Dean placidly by the upper arm and led him out of the bedroom, down the stairs, into the kitchen. He pushed Dean down into a chair at the table, ordered him to stay there, and then walked out.Dean briefly wondered where Sam and Bobby were before he felt his stomach clench with worry. What the hell was Dad going to do? Why in the kitchen? The kitchen was a public area. Bedrooms were private. He didn’t want to be spanked in the kitchen. This was all Bobby’s fault. If the old bastard hadn’t gone and started reassuring Dean that he was a good kid, Dean wouldn’t have gotten all defensive. He didn’t need anyone telling him that he was a good kid. Of course he was a good kid. He did everything anyone had ever asked of him.Dad came back into the kitchen touting a stool.“What’s that for?” Dean asked, but Dad ignored him, setting the piece of furniture in the corner of the room. Dean felt the color drain from his face. Oh, no. Oh shit no. No way.“Come here.”“No.”“Then you’re ready to talk?”“No, I’m not fucking talking.”Dad grabbed Dean by the arm. His big hand swung down like a hammer on Dean’s ass. Dean felt his feet skid across the floor as Dad dragged him to the stool, pushed him firmly down. Dean fidgeted, blushing at the sting in his backside, and its further intensity from the contact of the wood. He felt for all the world like a naughty three-year-old.“You can get up when you decide to talk,” Dad told him. “Until then you stay in this corner. If you get up with no intention of talking, you’re really not going to   
like the consequences, clear?”Dean mumbled a “yessir” which seemed to satisfy Dad, who nodded and took a seat at the table clearly intent on making sure Dean didn’t move. Dean squirmed, wondering why it was that everyone was so concerned about his mental health and then when he refused to talk out his feelings like some girl, that he was put in this position of utter humiliation. How the hell was humiliation supposed to make him feel better about himself?He got up. Dad raised an eyebrow.“You talking?”“No, and I’ll tell you why. This,” Dean gestured to the stool. “makes no fucking sense, Dad.”Dean was bare-assed and over Dad’s lap before he could tell Dad exactly where he could put his goddamn stool. It wasn’t an excessively hard spanking, but it was firm and evenly spread and by the end of it, every inch of Dean’s behind was warm and pink. Dad flipped him upright on his lap, held Dean firmly against his broad chest with one hand. With the other, he reached down and tugged Dean’s jeans and boxers down to his ankles.“Kick them off,” he ordered.Dean’s stomach dropped. “Why?”“Because you’re not getting them back until I say. Now kick them off before I beat your ass again.”Dean kicked them off, his face burning.“You ready to talk, yet?”No. “No,” Dean snapped. Dad stood up, taking Dean up with him, smacked his naked backside with a hard hand. “Get back on the stool.”Dean swallowed, but went back to the stool. He sat down, tried to pull his shirt over his exposed genitalia, but it wouldn’t stay down and he leaned forward and stuffed his face into his hands thinking about Sam and Bobby coming into the kitchen and seeing his pink ass peeking out from over the stool and under the shirt and this was the most humiliating thing his father had ever done to him. Dean was pretty sure that being treated like a kid was worse than being treated   
like a working dog, or a babysitter, or a friend-when-Dad-needed-one. “Dean, keep your eyes on the wall.”He was twenty-seven years old and his bare, spanked ass was perched on a stool in the corner of a room. Sam was right. Dean was pathetic. And stupid. Dean followed Dad’s orders with a dog-like obedience. Dean was this way because Dad made him this way. Because Dean’s job was to think of Sam. Not of the future, not of his own dreams or wants or commitments, but of Sam. For twenty-three years all Dean had ever thought of was Sam, and the only person he had ever tried to please was Dad.“It’s your fault.”“Excuse me?”Dean hadn’t realized he had been talking, but he ventured on. “You made me this way.”He heard Dad get up and the next thing he knew, his pants and underwear were dumped into his lap.“You’re right,” Dad said simply. “It’s my fault. Get your pants on. We’ll continue this in the bedroom.”***Sam watched as Bobby listened carefully at the door, shifting from foot to foot, hoping that Dad’s and/or Dean’s blood and entrails weren’t splattered all over the inside of the house. Bobby had taken him into town, bought him a burger, taken him to a used bookstore. “Your daddy needs to talk to Dean alone,” he’d said as Sam had continued staring through the doorway through which Dad had dragged Dean.“I don’t hear any hollering,” the grizzled hunter said now, opening the door with more caution than Sam thought particularly necessary.“That’s a good sign, I guess.”Dean and Dad weren’t in the kitchen, but Sam immediately noticed a stool sitting in the corner and wondered where the hell it had come from and what the hell it had been used for. Then he stopped wondering. He didn’t want to know.“I’m gonna go check on them, I think,” he said to Bobby.  
“You sure that’s a good idea, Sam?”“I don’t hear any hollering, either.”Bobby smirked at him, inclined his head slightly to give his consent, and Sam scampered off. He slowed down when he reached the top of the stairs, crept over the creaking floorboards as quietly as he could, as if he were on a hunt, and suddenly he understood Bobby’s caution while opening the door. Whatever had been going on, whatever might still be going on, was probably something that shouldn’t be interrupted. Dean was in too delicate of a state right now to deal with unwanted witnesses.Sam smiled to himself. Dean would kick his ass so hard if he knew that Sam had just thought of him as delicate.They were in Dad’s room, asleep on Dad’s bed. Dean’s face was tear-streaked, his cheek resting on Dad’s chest and Dad was facing the ceiling, his eyes also closed, his breathing deep, his cheeks glinting suspiciously in the light.Sam backed out of the room, closed the door carefully behind him. Dean would kick his ass so hard if he ever found out that Sam had seen that. “They’re asleep,” he told Bobby back in the kitchen.“You sure they’re not dead?”“Pretty sure.”Bobby pulled a beer out of the refrigerator, started handing it to Sam. Sam shook his head. Bobby stopped, looked surprised, then sheepish. “I forgot, Sammy.”“S’okay,” Sam said, watching as Bobby popped open the beer for himself. Bobby went to the window, looked out at the junkyard. Sam looked at the stool in the corner and shuddered. He hoped that he would never come down with a bout of low self-esteem.Dad had really weird ways of coping with such matters.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam was sorry to say goodbye to Bobby, and it wasn’t just because he would miss him - and he would miss him, don’t get him wrong - but he really didn’t feel like going on a hunt. He had been enjoying their downtime the past couple of days. Dad and Bobby had completely shirked the “Freak Empath Psychic Connectivity Shit” exercises (as Dean had taken to calling them, based on that one time with the hunting show) and Sam and Dean had been allowed to just laze around while Dad and Bobby took care of a poltergeist a few towns west.It was awesome. And weird as Hell. Dad had come into their room in the morning, shaken them both awake, told them what was going down. Dean had immediately jumped to his feet, as per usual, saying that he wanted to come along, but Dad had pushed him back down.“You’re staying here.”“But-”“Your head, Dean.” And then he’d sat down on Dean’s bed, gathered the older boy in his arms, and Sam had thought that was weird and awkward. Dad had then done the same to Sam, which Sam thought was nice, and murmured, “Take care of your brother while I’m gone.”Weird shit, Sam thought now as he shoved his duffel into the back of the Impala. Dean’s headaches had finally subsided and Dad had found some hunt in Milwaukee. He would have complained about the sudden uprooting, but both Dad and Dean seemed eager to be on the move again, and Sam didn’t feel like being a killjoy.They said their goodbyes to Bobby. Dean drove most of the way to Wisconsin, singing along to Boston, and Dad sat in the passenger seat, every so often shooting an indulgent smile over to Sam’s older brother. Once again, weird shit. Sam had tried to ask Dean about what had happened that day, while Dean had been with Dad and Sam had gone out with Bobby, gently prodding around the subject while they had been watching Spongebob Squarepants, Dean’s mouth full of microwave popcorn as he laughed at the antics of that insipid pink starfish. Dean’s face had gone stone cold for a minute. Then he had said, quite seriously, “Dude, let it go.” And Sam had let it go. Trees and cars and road passed by the window too fast for Sam to see, it was alla blur of green and alloy and asphalt and Dean was speeding like a demon. Sam kept waiting for Dad to tell him to pull over, kept waiting for the growled warning, or the threat of a little father/son hand/ass intimacy, but it wouldn’t   
come. Dad just looked at Dean a few times, and said, “Slow down, dude,” and Dean would slow down for like fifteen minutes before speeding back up again.“So...a jewelry store, huh?” Dean finally asked, turning down the volume so Sam could be a part of the conversation. The sky was quickly darkening outside. They’d been on the road for about seven hours. “How do we know this lady just wasn’t crazy? Maybe she’d been planning to rob the place for years...”Sam snorted. “So, what? So then she goes and kills herself after she pulls it off?”He watched Dean’s shoulders lift. “Maybe she didn’t plan on shooting the night watchman in the face, you ever think about that? How do we even know this is our kind of gig, Dad?”“Because it’s not the first incident in the area,” Dad replied calmly. “You boys still set with your FBI identification?” Sam and Dean hummed their confirmation.“Alright, there was another robbery a few months ago ending in suicide...and there was a witness. A Ronald Resnick. I want you boys to go to his house while I check out the jewelry store.”It was only about another hour before they entered Milwaukee. Sam wasn’t surprised when Dad expected them to get straight to business, having Dean drop him off at the jewelry store before speeding away to a somewhat derelict residential district.Sam’s first impression of Ronald Resnick was that the guy was a paranoid little loser. His house was small, probably inherited, and filled with X-Files-esque conspiracy theories. Dean, of course, loved him.“How was Ronald?” Dad asked later, bent over a map of the city sewer system.“Ron’s awesome,” Dean replied brightly, leaning over his father’s shoulder to geta glimpse. “Sammy would make a really good fed. He was all cold and mean and heartless and full of lies, Dad.”“Ron stole the surveillance tapes from that night.” Sam ignored his brother, got straight to business. He popped one of said tapes into the old VCR on top of the TV. Fast-forwarded. Rewound. Paused. “Shifter,” Dad grunted. He didn’t sound surprised. Sam felt a small wave of irritation, knowing that Dad wasn’t telling them everything again, but he swallowed it down.“We going to the Milwaukee National Trust tomorrow?” Dean asked, eyes   
scanning the map. Dad quirked an eyebrow, studied the map, marked it with his pen. Then he nodded. Sam saw the older hunter’s eyes glance up at Dean, and they were bright and full of pride. A fist of jealousy jabbed Sam in the gut, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was about fifteen, a sensation that was immediately knocked out by a sense of shame. Dean needed Dad’s pride more than Sam did.They spent a couple of hours formulating a plan. Dean added in a few wise cracks here and there and Dad smiled at them behind a surreptitious hand. Sam remained all business, but no one really seemed to appreciate it.“Bed,” Dad finally said, and neither Sam nor Dean argued with him. It was nearly 2 in the morning, and vacation time was obviously over. Sam, at least, was going to cling to the little sleep he could get.He climbed into the bed he would share with his brother that night, skin shiny and freshly washed, his mouth clean and tingling from toothpaste. Dean was stillin the bathroom, gargling mouthwash. Dad walked over to Sam, pulled the covers up to his chin with firm hands.“You tucking me in?” Sam was incredulous, even though he had no reason to be.This wasn’t exactly unexpected behavior from Dad these days.Dad ignored him. “You feeling okay about tomorrow?”Sam shrugged, tried not flinch away from or lean into the coarse thumb that ran over his forehead. “Yeah, Dad. No big.”Dad frowned. “No big?” he asked slowly.Sam’s mind was quick to understand the implications of the tone. “I mean, big. You know, it’s always big. I just meant...it’s just another day on the job, right? I’ve got my head in the game.” Dad was still frowning, and this time, Sam frowned with him. “You don’t think I have my head in the game?”“I do,” Dad told him. “You’ve done good tonight, Sammy.” The older hunter delivered the praise with a soft note of tenderness and this time, Sam did lean into the thumb. Then Dad added, “It’s just that something seems to be bothering you.”Dad? Perceptive? Now that was weird. Dean came through, then, smelling like soap and mint in his white undershirt and boxers. He glanced at Dad and then at Sam, shrugged his eyebrows, and slipped himself into the bed.   
“M’fine,” Sam insisted, irritated hat he’d allowed something so trivial and childish as sibling jealousy to glimpse through. “Just tired, s’all.”Dad still didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway and brushed Sam’s hair out of his face with a big hand. Sam closed his eyes and tried not to be too appreciative of the gesture.“Sleep.” One last order for the night and Sam nodded in response, turned his body onto his side, away from his big brother. He didn’t miss the order again, this time directed at Dean, “Sleep, Dean-o” or the noise Sam didn’t really want to think about, but sounded suspiciously like Dad’s lips kissing Dean’s head.Sam didn’t get a goodnight kiss - and oh, Jesus God, was he really thinking that? How old was he, anyway? Three?But Dean only grunted in response to Dad, and Sam tried to use this as a meansto quell the unwanted feelings arising in his gut. He listened as Dad went into the bathroom, nightly rituals intermingling with Dean’s steady breathing which slowed and evened with the onset of sleep. The middle Winchester was out cold by the time Dad came out of the bathroom and Sam closed his eyes, pretended to be the same. He felt Dad’s eyes on them for a few long minutes before hearing the squeak of the other mattress as it depressed with human weight. He heard Dad’s breathing as it transitioned from ragged to rhythmic. Dean’s snores were soft and so were Dad’s and Dad’s were slightly deeper from years of tobacco and pain, but Dean would snore and then Dad would snore and it was almost like a private song being sung in the little room, a song that Sam wasn’t a part of.***“Stupid costumes,” Dean groused.“They’re uniforms,” Sam corrected him.“Stupid uniforms.”This all-navy jumpsuit getup really wasn’t doing it for him and Dean didn’t really understand why Dad and Sam felt it to be so abundantly necessary.“We used to get along fine without these ridiculous disguises,” Dean reminded Dad, who quirked a smile at some long ago memory and ruffled his eldest son’s hair.“We’ve never done a bank job before, either,” Dad reminded him and when he   
scowled in response, the pat Dean got on the ass wasn’t so fond. “We do what we have to do, son. I don’t want to hear any more complaining.”“Yessir.”Dad was all business now, but Dean couldn’t help but think that it was easy for the old man to be so righteous about this, seeing as he wasn’t posing as a dumb security guard and hence, didn’t have to wear this godforsaken atrocity.Sammy was acting all business-like, too. Not that Dean’s straight-laced little brother was ever Mr. Goofball on the job, but with Dad around now, it almost seemed like brown-nosing. And Dean kept getting these vibes from him whenever Dad was being appreciative of Dean, as he was now prone to being. All the time.“You boys be careful,” Dad said in the car, two blocks from the bank. “I’ll be coming in there in a half hour. You find something out before then-”“We’ll text you,” Sam said promptly, and Dad’s lips lifted and he nodded and patted both of their shoulders.“Dude,” Dean said as they walked towards the bank. “I still can’t believe Dad knows how to check his texts.”It must have been two hours they spent in front of those goddamn security monitors, fidgeting in their seats, looking for those creepy fucking flaring eyes. Dean kept himself entertained by bugging Sam, as per usual, frequently referring to the non-fact that they were searching for the mandroid, as Ron so adamantly claimed the perp to be the previous night.“No mandroid yet, Sammy.”“Stop calling it a mandroid.”Dean glimpsed Sam’s sour expression, smirked, gave pause for comic timing. “Mandroid.”Sam hit him. Dean grinned, then grinned broader as he zoomed in on hot bank teller ass.“Dude,” Sam scowled. “Look for the shifter.”“No.”Sam shoved Dean’s hands out of the way, went at the controls. Dean shoved   
back. “Dude, enough with your control freak tendencies. I’ve got this.” The battle ensued, the camera zooming in and out and panning to the left and right and - “Sam, stop. Go back.”Business. The shapeshifter’s eyes were like two pits of glowing emptiness.“Text Dad,” Dean ordered promptly. “Tell him its the bank manager.”“Where is he?”“Bench,” Dean replied, panning over to a corner of the bank where their father sat, casually reading a newspaper.Sam’s fingers were rapid fire. Dean kept his eyes on the monitors, surveying their area, his mind working to formulate the safest route to capture and kill. There were so many people to think about. He hated when there were so many people to think about. The people in the lines, the people filling out their deposit slips, the people coming in, the people bitching about their personal financial problems, the tellers, the guys in suits, the-“Dude.” Dean smacked Sam lightly in the arm, pointed to the monitor displaying the outside security view.Ronald Resnick. With heavy artillery.Sam’s jaw dropped. “No shitting way.”“Text Dad about that one, too.”“The hell’s he gonna-”“I don’t know. But he might be pissed if we didn’t see it fit to warn him. Just type the following things...” Dean held up one finger. “Ron.” Two fingers. “Big gun.” He jumped up from his seat, yanked the still texting Sam up with him. “Do it while we’re running down there.”“Dude!”But Sam ran with him, allowing Dean to guide him while he kept his eyes on his phone. Not that it mattered - they heard a shot ring out before even reaching the main lobby, heard the echo of Ron’s voice, and the second they spotted Dad was the same second the cell phone beeped. Message received.  
Dad had his gun out, but Ron was faster than he looked. “Put it down,” he barked, voice wavering with nerves. “Put it down and kick it over.” And Dad did.Dean remembered being twelve and awestruck, and the gun being heavy and cold before Dad had plucked it out of his hands. You’re not always going to be the only one with a gun, Dean-o, Dad had said. Sometimes, when you pull out a gun, somebody else is going to pull out a gun. This person may be a competent shooter, like you’ll be. They may be confident and full of grace, like you’ll be. This is the person you don’t really have to fear, because you’ll be able to anticipate their next move. The person you should be really scared of is the guy who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, the guy who’s so fucking nervous he can’t hold the gun straight. Unless you’re absolutely certain you can handle the situation, you should always do what this guy says.“You two!” Ron had spotted them. “Hey, man,” Dean grinned. Calm. Friendly. He liked Ron well enough. The guy was a social outcast, a perceptive man whose near-truths were distorted by a lifetime of television myths and a lack of two-person sex. Dean got that. He understood. “Just calm down now.”“Don’t tell me to calm down!”Sam tried to calm Ron down, too, with even less success, and pretty soon, both Winchester boys were on their knees along with the rest of the bank. Dad had his eyes on them, shifting from Dean and Sam to the gun wobbling around in Ron’s hands. Dean knew that his father was desperately searching his head for a plan, that the search was being constantly obstructed by mountains of worry, and it was one of the few times since Dean made the deal that he wished his Dad were like pre-hell Dad. Non-girl Dad.Stop being a girl, Dad, Dean wanted to say.But Dad wasn’t going to stop being a girl, and Ron just plain didn’t like Sam. This one was all on Dean.“Ron, man...just listen to me for a sec...”***John Winchester was not now, nor had he ever been, a patient man. He didn’t like situations out of his control, or places he had no escape from. He didn’t like boats, or the feeling of being on one vessel atop endless amounts of water, just floating away with days maybe weeks before touching land. Or planes, locked for hours away in the sky. And he most definitely did not like vaults.  
“You okay?” Sam asked, edging away from a girl who seemed to be vying for the role of Dean Winchester’s #1 Fan.“I’m fine, Sammy.”“Dean’s okay, you know...”“I know. Your brother knows what he’s doing.”It wasn’t a lie, or a hope, John knew. His eldest was well-trained and perfectly capable of pulling almost anything off on his own. It was that Ron guy that John didn’t trust, the little nutter with the gun desperate to do what he believed right.And being stuck in here while Dean was out there with both that lunatic and a shape shifter? Well, that was all kinds of wrong.“Dad, c’mon, you look like you’re about to climb the-”“Dad?” the voice was female and shrill and full of potential fanaticism.Oh, no.“You’re their dad?”No, no, no...not now. Not right now. John couldn’t take this right now. He couldn’t be nice right now.“Oh my god, what did Dean want to be when he was little? I bet it was a policeman, or a fireman, or-”“Dean wanted to be an auto mechanic,” John deadpanned.“A...mechanic.” Dear God, the girl sounded disappointed.“Yes.” It was the truth. Dean had always wanted to be a mechanic...well, after he had gone through that phase in which he had sworn to his mother countless times that when he grew up, he was going to be a tiger.“But he’s so...brave.”John felt a little indignant at the implications of her statement. John, after all, had been a mechanic, and a fairly brave one at that. The words “war veteran” came to mind...  
“Mechanics can be brave,” Sam interjected. “Mechanics can be all sorts of things.”You can be anything you want to be, John remember telling Dean, when the boy was three and barely cognizant of what his father was saying. Dean had looked up at him with eyes too big for his little face, his tiny hands banging a large wrench with some effort against the concrete flooring of the garage.I’ve been nothing but a fucking workhorse to you, Dean had said last week. A fucking babysitter. I might as well have been that fucking robot maid from The Jetsons. What was her name, again? And the kid had actually halted his emotional tirade to bite his nails and think about the name of the fucking cartoon.The girl prattled on. The lights turned off. The cops were outside. It wasn’t long before the vault opened again, and Dean motioned John and Sam out, told the rest to stay where they were, a gun in his hand. This definitely wasn’t how the hunt was supposed to go.“I’m fine, Dad,” Dean insisted, knocking John’s hands away when he instantly reached out to check him over. Then, more quietly, “Shifter’s in the vault.”It was almost immediately decided that Sam would be the one to draw the guy out, as Sam was the only one of them who spoke with any sort of social ease. Which, of course, didn’t mean it went well. Inevitably, the shifter got away, and Ron shot the elderly security guard by accident.Sam ended up just looking pissed off at this, eyes shifting between the bleeding man on the floor and Ron’s half-amazed face, his expression almost exactly identical to the one he used to wear as a teenager, whenever Dean had said something particularly stupid.Dean, however, appeared stunned.The person you should be really scared of is the guy who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, the guy who’s so fucking nervous he can’t hold the gun straight.Dean’s voice had yet to change when John had given him that lecture, and the older hunter supposed the situation hadn’t arisen until now.The phone rang. Cops wanted to hear Ron’s demands.“Dean.”“Yessir?”  
“You handle Ron, Sam and I are-”“I got it.”I do everything you tell me to do, Dean had said and his hand had swiped angrily at a tear that dared to trickle. I do everything you tell me to do because I’m sure that if I don’t, I’ll fail to make the right decision. I can’t think for my fucking self.The skin was hot and steaming and Sam crinkled his nose and looked away from it in supreme distaste. John found himself hit with the cheerful memory of potty training.They went back down to the lobby. Dean was at the door and lights were flashing in his face. John felt his heart stop, but the boy scurried back in, stopped when he saw them, smiled winningly at his father.“Hostage release,” he said by way of explanation, lips straining with force.John grabbed his arm, pulled him forward, dealt him a hard blow to the behind he wouldn’t soon forget. “They saw your face,” he hissed.Dean jerked away, out of his father’s grasp. “So? What does it matter? I’m already wanted for murder in St. Louis...”“They thought you were dead in St. Louis, Dean. Now they know you’re not.”Dean shrugged again. John grabbed him once more, swung him around, bent him over. His hand came down on the seat of his son’s jeans three times.Dean didn’t fight, and when John finally let him go, the boy took a few steps backwards. Away from his father, towards his brother.“What does it matter?” Dean asked again, his voice lacking its previous defense, his tone placid and apathetic.If I weren’t what I am, I would be nothing. Dean had confessed, not fighting his father’s arms, which were wrapped tightly around him, pressing Dean’s back to John’s chest. Sammy...you were always going on about Sammy. How smart he was. How special he was. But me...I was just average. I was just there to take care of Sammy. Sammy needed to be looked after. Nobody ever looked after me. Not even you. You didn’t think I was worth it.John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your freedom matters, Dean.”  
I’ve never been free. If I weren’t a hunter, I would be a mechanic.“Whatever. Let’s just find the fucking shifter.”I’ve always just followed you. Your orders, your footsteps. It’s like I’m tied to you with a fucking invisible chain.The girl. Her body fell from the upstairs ceiling.“Dude, it’s your fan,” Sam said, trying to ignore the ever-increasing tension.“My fan?”“Yeah, she thinks you’re the greatest.”“Thought, Sammy. She’s dead, if you hadn’t noticed...”When they returned, Ron was dead in the lobby. Blood leaked from his head, the hole was clean through. The window was shattered.“I should have stayed with him.”“It’s not your fault-” Sam immediately tried to console his brother.“Just get the fucking shifter.”It’s my fault. John had shifted the boy on his lap, trying to get the sore bottom off his thigh. Talking...it’s hard for you because it’s hard for me.“What...what are you doing?” It shrieked with the girl’s mouth and cried with her face.I couldn’t ever tell you how much I needed you. How you kept me going...us going.“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” It insisted. “You’re crazy! All of you!”How special you were. Are.“Just shut up. The act isn’t working,” Dean growled.Shut up, Dad. I can’t stand how much of a woman you are now. And Dean had wrangled himself out of his father’s arms, flopped down onto the bed.  
It fainted when Its eyes landed on the girl.Her name was Rosie, John had told his son.“What the...?” Dean was bewildered, thumb stroking the silver letter opener he had procured from one of the loan officers’ desks.Huh?They heard the swat team stampede in downstairs. John looked between the girland her twin.The maid on the Jetsons. Her name was Rosie. You always wanted a dog named Astro. Dean shrugged an eyebrow. Knelt. Got ready to plunge the silver into the thing’s heart.“Dean, wait!” Sam hissed.How old was I?The dead girl got to her feet. The shifter remained unconscious.You were three...Her eyes flickered and she grinned, licked her teeth like she was a lion trying to clean the blood from them.Three wasn’t always, Dad.John barely managed to restrain the thing, but he did, and Dean killed it.Unfortunately. I took good care of you when you were three.John let the body fall limp to the floor. The Winchesters stood for a moment, looking and feeling quite proud of themselves.Three members of the SWAT team conveniently saw it fit to enter the room.If I weren’t a hunter, John had said, I would be a mechanic. Not necessarily because I want to be a mechanic, but because my father was a mechanic.They made quick work of stripping the bastards and stealing their clothes. John led the way out through the masses of people and cops, his boys at his heels.   
The Impala was in a parking deck, and upon seeing her, Dean let out a breath, ran a loving hand over her hood.Why would you be a mechanic, Dean? John had asked, settling himself on the bed next to his son. Dean had thought about that question for next to no time at all.“We’re home, baby,” John’s first-born murmured fondly. John climbed in the back, let Sam get in the passenger seat, watched Dean slide in behind the wheel.I love my car. Then the kid had smiled, and it had been dazzling and made John’s heart leap as if it had been shocked with rainbows and lollipops. He had settled, eventually, when the boy’s head came to rest on John’s chest.“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Sam said desperately, as his brother casually slid in a cassette tape before shifting the car into drive.John had stroked the short, soft hair for a long while before speaking again. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you. You deserved better.“Slow down, dude,” John said immediately, when Dean started speeding down the street.I’m sorry I can’t take any of it back. I would if I could.“Dean, slow down,” John repeated firmly. The streets were riddled with cops. The kid was going to get them pulled over, arrested, maybe shot.I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I promise that from now on, I’m gonna take care of you.“Dean. Slow down this fucking car.”“But-”The best I can.“Do you want a spanking?”The car slowed down. The Winchesters coasted safely out of Milwaukee.


	20. Chapter 20

Raindrops hit the windshield like bullets. The wipers swung loud in their frenzy to keep John’s view of the road clear. He had the volume turned too low to hear John Fogerty’s vocal stylings over the frequent pounding of the water and screech of the wipers and somehow the natural forces of noise made the protrusion of Sammy’s lower lip just that more noticeable. Not to mention Dean’s squirming.“Can I sit up front now?” Sam asked. “It’s been an hour.”The boys were a bit too big to be sharing the back, but they should have damn well known better than scrap over who got shotgun.“Why would you be the one who gets to sit up front, Samantha?” Dean demanded.“Because I’m not the one who got a spanking,” Sam retorted without a moment’s hesitation. John wasn’t at all surprised by the embarrassed pause of silence that followed the declaration and he glanced in the rearview even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see the flush creeping over his boys’ faces in the darkness.Dean had been earning himself frequent spankings as of late. It had been two and half weeks since the bank incident, and keeping the boy inside and out of sight had been quite the trial - the kid had a habit of going stir crazy within five minutes of being led into a new motel room. Dean’s moods had been generally volatile, good nature dashed from a lack of freedom, and John was always quick to point out that motel room prisons were bound to be far more enjoyable than real prisons. Not that stating such did anything. Dean would just become sullen, choosing to climb into bed and sulk while John and Sam went over plans for whichever case they were working on.“If you’re going to continue to argue about it, neither one of you is sitting up front.”Not that it really mattered. They were about an hour away from The Roadhouse,a destination John decided would be appropriate due to Dean’s circumstances. Half the guys in that place were wanted for murder.He ended up pulling over for gas, though, to fill up the tank in case they needed to get the fuck back in the car really quickly. It may have been a while, but John Winchester wasn’t a man to think that big things like coming back from the dead were things that would blow over.“You can flip a coin,” John told his two sulking boys as he popped his door open. “If I hear one word that sounds like an argument, you’re both going to be back   
there again. Clear?”“Yessir.”The station was covered, but the wind whipped some droplets of water against John’s face. He blinked them away, shook his head a bit, and leaned down as he pumped the gas to avoid further assault.He barely heard his phone ring. It was Ellen. He was in the midst of telling her they’d be there soon when he heard Sam say that he was going inside to get something to drink. He gave the boy a quick nod of approval while continuing his conversation.“So, John...I have to ask. Did the prostitute really see an angel?” Ellen’s voice was tinged with humor and John’s mouth twitched.“It was the spirit of a priest who thought he was an angel.”John gave a brief overview of what had gone down while he finished up, told her once again that they would be there in about forty-five minutes and yes, they could do with a place to stay. He snapped his phone shut as he replaced the gas cap.He glanced briefly in the back seat, guessed that Dean must’ve won the coin toss. Hell, might as well let Sammy stretch his legs, too.“You wanna drive, bud-” John was halfway in the driver’s seat before he realized he was talking to air. “No fucking way.”But sure enough, through the rain-streaked windows of the gas station, there was Dean. Sam’s tall form wavered next to his big brother and John saw a long arm stretch out to push a shoulder, which was immediately returned with an elbow to the ribs.Clearly waiting outside would have been the best strategic decision, but John was full of fear and fury and his irrational paternal instincts were quick to take over as he found his booted feet marching him into the small convenience store. The counter was to his right, and a gnarly old attendant stood behind it reading a trashy celebrity magazine.“Can I help you?” the man asked in a voice cracked from age and tobacco.“You got a bathroom in this place?”  
The man eyed him consideringly. A key with a huge plastic ring was shoved over the counter and John took it with a polite “thank you.” He looked over at his boys, who had spotted him. Sam looked a little bit scared - the proof being the bottle of soda in his trembling ever so slightly. Dean, however, seemed to be going for the opposite approach.“You ready to go, Dad?” the boy asked with a cocky grin.“I told him...” Sam trailed off, probably noting the murderous look on John’s face.“In the car, Sammy. You get front.”“I know. I won the coin toss...” Sam stopped, fidgeted, placed the bottle of soda on the counter.“That it, son?” the man asked, looking uneasily between the three men.“Yes...sir.”“One sixty-three.”Dean started moving to go outside, but John pulled him back by the collar of his coat. He stuck a hand down one of the back pockets of the boy’s jeans amid squawking protests and fished out the kid’s wallet.“Dad!”John ran a hand through the loose cash, counted out fifty bucks and tossed it onto the counter. The man looked at him with wide eyes. “My son and I need to use your bathroom.”“Oh, hell no...that’s all the money I have!”But John was already dragging him past the counter and down the short, dirty hallway. Dean’s legs were like those of a newborn foal, going everywhere, and the boy spent the time his father took to unlock the door trying to get the damn things beneath him.“Nooo...”John tugged the kid into the bathroom which wasn’t at all pleasant, but luckily large enough for the two of them. Normally he would yell, or lecture, but this was a gas station and they were on the road. There was no time allotted for such pleasantries.  
“Aw, c’mon, man. It smells like freakin’ feces in here!”John responded by kicking the toilet seat down. He placed his foot on the small surface, jerked Dean over his leg. The boy attempted to squirm away, but John held on with a grip like stone. He continued to hold on despite the ceaseless resistance, but his boy was strong and getting stronger everyday and this was fucking irritating.“Stop it, Dean. Right now.” The hiss was low and furious and Dean finally stilled,breathing heavily over his father’s knee. “We’ve been over this way too many times. You know what happens.” John yanked the jeans down with such force that the top button popped off, careened off the wall, and landed on the floor. Dean made a small noise in the back of his throat that the older man chose to ignore. John was perfectly aware that had probably hurt.He drew the boxers down quickly. He wanted to get this over with. Luckily, Dean’s ass was already pink and tender - kid threw a frustrated punch at his little brother earlier and John’s nerves were already rubbed pretty raw that afternoon.“We’re not having this conversation again.”They won’t. John will buy a freaking dog leash if he has to. John cracked his hand down repeatedly, alternating between the right cheek and the left cheek, evening out the color of his son’s buttocks as he covered every inch of skin. He made sure to go over some places twice for extra discomfort, gruffly repositioned the boy over his leg to aim plenty of smarting smacks to the under curves of the kid’s behind.Dean started crying, started promising that this was the last time and John agreed.“Yeah,” he said. “This is the last time.” Dean started getting up when John’s spanking hand let up, but John’s pinning hand shoved him right back down. “We’re not finished yet.”John unbuckled his belt, knowing he was going to hate himself for this later, but goddamn it. This was the last. Time. He slipped the leather out of his pants, looped it up around his fist.The kid peered over his own shoulder, red face paling visibly at the sight of the belt. “No, no, no...” Dean pleaded. “Dad, no. I got it. I won’t...”  
The boy cried out when the belt seared across his right buttock, though he managed to remain relatively quiet for the following seven strokes. The boy was limp over John’s knee and had to be helped to a standing position. John drew up the kid’s pants, fastening the belt a little tighter around the thin waist to make up for the lack of button. He felt Dean’s face tuck into his shoulder, felt the silent sobs and the wet tears against the fabric.“You’re okay.” John ran a hand through the boy’s short hair.The comfort was brief, but Dean pulled himself together, allowed his father to lead him out of the bathroom. He kept his head lowered, face in the back of John’s jacket as John tossed the key on the counter. John exchanged a nod with the wide-eyed old attendant before pulling his twenty-seven-year-old out of the station by the hand.“You’re going straight to bed when we get to Ellen’s.”Dean didn’t argue. He allowed his father to deposit him in the back seat with a kiss to the side of the head, maneuvered his long legs so he could lay down on his side.John shoved the keys in the ignition, put on his seat belt. Sam’s eyes were trying their best to scorch the side of his face, but John decided to try to take it in stride.“Stop looking at me like that, Sam.”Sam didn’t stop looking at him like that. John stifled a sigh, looked in the rearview at Dean’s turned back.“Dean. I love you and I don’t want you to risk your freedom just to try to prove that you can go into a gas station without getting recognized. Things will calm down in time, but for now this is our situation, and you have to listen to me when I tell you that you can’t be seen. Okay?”A moment passed before John was rewarded with a soft, “Yessir.”“Good boy.” He looked over to Sam, who was looking relieved. He mouthed a quick, “Better?” that Sam nodded to before he turned on the engine. CCR played softly in the background as the Winchesters made their way to their destination._________________________________________  
Sam groaned inwardly when he saw Jo. Tension flowed through him when Jo ranat Dean, enveloped him in a hug, started babbling about what she’d been doing, and asking what he’d been doing, and saying that she was sorry about the way things had gone before.Dad looked at Dean and Dean blushed and Sam felt acutely embarrassed. “Jo, give ‘em some room...” Ellen bustled over, gave Dad and Sam quick hugs, reached past her petite daughter to run an affectionate hand over Dean’s arm.Sam could count the number of hunters in the room on one of his hands and none of them were paying any attention to them.“Slow night?” Dad asked. Ellen shrugged. “I kicked a few of ‘em out.”Dad and Ellen started going back and forth about whether that had been necessary. Sam took a step closer to his brother and Jo.“You okay?” Jo asked Dean, looking closely at his face. “You look like you’ve been crying.”Sam’s stomach dropped. His brother’s face remained stoic.“Sweating,” Dean replied with a smirk. “The old man couldn’t stand a little argument over shotgun. Made Sam and me run laps around a rest area.”“In the rain?”“In the rain,” Dean agreed with ease.Jo peered at Sam, who took Dean’s cue and shrugged it off. “Dean has chronic sweating problems. I don’t. I got the good genes.” It was hard, but Sam managed to smile through the sharp pain from the reprimanding kick to the ankle.The girl looked suspicious, as well she should. Sam was fairly sure the flush from crying and the flush from sweating - in the rain (if that were freaking possible)- were drastically different flushes. Dad came over then, whispered something inaudible into Dean’s ear. Dean coughed in a fake way that could have been done so much better.“I’m a little tired...gonna hit the sack, I think. It was nice seeing you again, Jo.”  
“It’s only...9:30,” the blond said with a small frown. “You’re gonna go to bed at 9:30?”“Dean’s feeling under the weather,” Dad said, looking at his eldest son with a sympathy Sam would never have thought feigned if he didn’t know the truth.“Yeah. Running in the rain should be considered child abuse.” Dean nodded wisely, waved cheerfully at the girl as his father led him off by the sleeve of his shirt.This left Sam alone with Jo, who never really seemed to care that he was around one way or the other. And Ellen, who’d given him up when he swore her to secrecy.“Where’s Ash?” he asked uncomfortably.“He’s out of town. Be back in a few days,” Jo told him.“I see you’re back...”“Yeah, well...just for the week. I told Mom I’d visit...” Jo shrugged. “So here I am. Visiting.” The silence was uncomfortable. Ellen went to man the bar. Jo cleared her throat. “So it must be nice having your dad back, huh? Mom told me what Dean did...” her eyes clouded over.Oh, that. Sam had almost forgotten about that. “We’re going to get him out of it,” he assured her.“You think you can?”“We’re going to get him out of it,” Sam repeated firmly, though he felt a little sick thinking about it.“Yeah, well...it seems a little unfair to me. Dean sacrifices himself only to be made to run around in the rain? You’re not children, you know. You don’t have to-”“Mind your own business.”Sam’s tone was clipped and angry, but Jo shook it off relatively well and they continued on with a far less personal conversation. Jo didn’t like John Winchester- Sam understood that, she had good reason, and Dad...well, Dad wasn’t exactly a likable guy, really. But while it was one thing for Sam to shit-talk his father, it was completely another for someone outside of the family to do the same.   
Sam was appreciative of Jo, though. She clearly didn’t buy the whole running in the rain deal, but she went along with it. He hoped that she didn’t suspect the truth - the truth was pretty much unspeakable, and if someone like Jo...you know, Bobby or Ellen. That was one thing. Jo? Completely another. Ellen offered him a beer. Eyebrows were raised when he refused it.Ultimately, he was glad when eleven o’clock rolled around and he could excuse himself to bed. Dean was fast asleep and not waking up anytime soon. Sam was glad. Dean had been annoying lately, what with the not being allowed to do anything ever. He was actually kind of starting to remind Sam of himself when Sam had been a teenager. And the roles were reversed now. Kind of. He tried to not to bring it up with Dean, but Dad had said about a week ago that Sam was in charge.Sam tucked himself into bed, rolled over onto his side. He watched his brother sleep in the darkness, the rise and fall of Dean’s back with each content breath. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed and he felt comfortable and at peace, which seemed out of place for the night’s events. Then he realized that he wasn’t the one feeling comfortable. He narrowed his eyes at Dean’s sleeping form.They really did need to figure this shit out. Sam was starting to miss knowing that his emotions were his own.________________________________Jo was a sweet kid. She really was. Dean kind of wished she would tone it down a bit, though, and stop observing him like she had the habit of doing.“Is your chair uncomfortable?”Dean narrowed his eyes. At Sam.“Nah. I think Sammy put itching powder in my underpants again.”Sam snorted. “Again? I believe it was you that put the damned itching powder in my underpants the first time.”Sam was a good kid. Always knew when to go along with things.Dean shoved a strip of bacon into his mouth, tried not to squirm so much. Jo smiled at him, so he smiled back with full cheeks and her eyes brightened. Yep, Dean Winchester had a way with the ladies.  
The rest of the breakfast conversation turned to Dean being wanted by the law, which Dean wasn’t a fan of, but went along with.“So, what’s it like being wanted by the law?” Jo asked.Dean shrugged. “You know. It’s pretty much just like not being wanted by the law, except you can’t go anywhere or do anything.”Yeah. That was it in a nutshell. Dean decided that being here at the Roadhouse wasn’t so bad, though, because nobody else was really doing anything, either.“Oh,” Ellen said, eyeing Dad while reaching for Dean’s empty plate. “I forgot to tell you. There’s a poltergeist a few towns over. Thought maybe you guys would like to take care of it.”“You know, Mom, I could-”“No, Jo."Jo steamed a bit at that. Dean went to pat her shoulder consolingly, but she jerked away.“Sam and I could take care of it,” Dad agreed.Dean steamed inwardly. Sam eyed him from across the table. Dean kicked his brother in the leg.“Ow.”“Sam?” Dad asked.“Bee stung me.”The Winchesters were full of ridiculous lies for their everyday life occurrences these days.Dad glared at Dean, who requested, “Bring me back a souvenir?”“We should get you one of those paddles with the ball attached,” Sam said absentmindedly. “To keep you occupied.”“I can think of better things to do with a paddle,” Dad growled.Jo and Ellen laughed. Dean was glad they found that so amusing.  
He sure as hell didn’t.


	21. Chapter 21

Two days after Dad and Sam returned from tackling the poltergeist, Sam disappeared. To add insult to injury, the kid stole the truck of a drunk hunter, a hunter who had been drinking steadily from four o’clock in the afternoon to midnight and when he stumbled out of The Roadhouse, he simply slurred “Where’s my truck?” before marching back in and hurling tables and chairs this way and that, much to Ellen’s dismay. It wasn’t until Dad knocked the guy out with his fist that they realized that Sam was also missing.A week later, Dean and Dad still hadn’t found him. They kept checking back with Ellen, checking in with Bobby, even calling Lawrence, calling Missouri, asking her if she’d seen the kid and she hadn’t. And Dad was getting more nervous. And Dean was getting more nervous. It was just like last time, neither of them able to sleep or eat properly, just taking short naps between the driving, both of them absently mumbling about how they were going to “kill that kid.”Dean was careful when he went out in public now, kept an eye out for any suspicious glances or hanging Wanted posters. He only looked at people when he had to, only made contact when he had to, and Dad was all grateful for that kind of stuff. Whenever he tried to sleep in the car, he’d feel Dad’s tense hand running over his head in silent thanks. Dean got that. Sometimes it was important that his dad only have to worry about one kid at a time.It was the week and a half mark, an actual Wednesday, when Sam finally called from a motel room in Wisconsin. Kid was frantic, his voice trembling and wavering and near sobbing, and Dean told him that it was okay, that he was going to be fine, that they’d be there soon.“Don’t move, Sammy. Just don’t move, okay?”Sam didn’t move, and Dad drove like hell. The Impala squealed into a parking spot, and Dean didn’t remember getting out of it, he just knew that now his hand was pounding on the door and he was telling his little brother that it was him, that it was Dean, that he was here. And there was no answer. He didn’t look to Dad for permission like he was given to doing in such situations, just tested the knob and it was open. And there was Sam, hunched over on the bed, looking at the ground, his shirt soaked in blood.Dad and Dean were toppling all over each other trying to get to him. “Are you hurt? Sammy?”“I don’t-“   
“Sam…Sammy, baby…” Dad was tackling the shirt, trying to get clumsy fingers to work the buttons.“I don’t think it’s mine,” Sam admitted softly.The shirt came off. Sam’s torso was smooth and untouched. Dean’s stomach clenched as the possibilities of what this could mean surged through his head.“It wouldn’t come off.”“Where did it come from, Sam?” Dean asked.“Don’t know. Don’t remember, Dean. Dad, I don’t remember.”Sam didn’t remember. Dad looked strained, almost angry, but his face softened when Sam buried a fretting face in his shoulder and started apologizing in earnest.“Do you remember leaving us?” the older man asked and Sam shook his head fervently and let out a muffled whimper.“M’sorry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to, Dad. I don’t remember anything. Dad...Daddy...”Dad’s face melted at the childish endearment. Dean’s didn’t. He was confused. And, yeah, it was a confusing situation and nothing about it was right, but something was especially not right. His little brother was nestled in his father’s strong arms, mumbling that he was sorry, that he didn’t remember, and Dean’s insides were feeling achingly empty.“What was the last thing you remember?” Dean asked.“We were at The Roadhouse, and you were seeing how many bar nuts you could fit in your mouth at once.”Dean nodded. That was about accurate. Sam had disappeared shortly after Dean had shoved about forty nuts into his mouth.“So you don’t remember stealing that drunk’s truck, then?”“Dean.” Dean couldn’t really believe that his dad was taking that admonishing tone with him, and it must have been clearly expressed on his face because Dad continued, “Your brother probably needs a little more time right now. Let’s cool it for a few minutes, okay, dude?”  
“But-”“Dean.” Dad stood, pulling Sam off the bed and up with him. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Sammy.”Dean watched, trying not to scowl, as Dad led Sam off to the bathroom. He fell limp onto the bed, and looked at the ceiling. He listened to the running water of the sink, the splashes as Dad’s large hands ran over Sam’s blood-stained skin, Dad’s rumbles, gentle and reassuring, as he washed his youngest free of the past week.But Dean still didn’t get it - and yeah, they had so much more to figure out before this could possibly be okay, but he felt absolutely no relief. He felt no relief at finding his little brother. Hell, Sam might as well still be missing.And that made absolutely no fucking sense.___________________________Sam had dumped the truck somewhere. He’d dumped a lot of cars, in fact, and the one they found was battered, old, and a fucking Volkswagen Beetle. Dean laughed. John almost did, too.“What? Did you expect me to take a bimmer?” Sam was indignant.“Bimmer?” Dean asked. “Don’t you mean-”“No, I don’t. I don’t mean beemer, Dean. Beemer is the word for a BMW motorcycle. You’re the car guy. Christ.”“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t go to college with a bunch of rich dicks,” Dean retorted.“Enough.”The boys fell quiet. The door of the car popped off when John went to open it. He let it fall to the ground with a clang before leaning into the car, searching the glove compartment, the dashboard, and the side pockets where he found two empty packs of cigarettes and three discarded lighters. Then the backseat, the floor - five empty forty-ounce bottles, still swaddled in brown paper, and one knife still dripping with blood. John pocketed the knife before piling the rest of the findings on the ground in front of his sons. Sam blinked at them. Dean snickered, kicking at the trash with a lazy foot.“Dad, I don’t remember-”  
“I know, Sammy. Dean, this isn’t funny.”“It’s a little-”“Dean.”John knew his son. He knew that Dean was just coping with the confusion by being a smartass, but this was fucking serious and the kid was getting on his nerves. And Sam was just looking freakin’ nervous. And John’s head was about to explode.“I don’t smoke,” Sam said. “And I don’t drink forties.”“We played Edward Forty Hands that one time,” Dean contradicted.“Yeah. And that was one of the biggest mistakes of my young life.”“Boys.”John was fucking lost. His little boy was suffering from some kind of freakish schizophrenic amnesia and John had absolutely no fucking clue as to what to do.Not to mention there was a bloody fucking knife in his jacket pocket that he didn’t want either kid to see.Dean reached for one of the empty bottles, took it out of the bag.“A-ha!”“What?” John asked.Dean tucked the bottle under an arm, dug into the bag, and pulled out a white slip of paper. “Receipt.”The receipt led them to a convenience store - and the knowledge that John’s baby was a thief.“Fucking drunk ass kid threw a bottle at my head.”A mean thief.“I’m calling the police.”The guy didn’t call the police. He even told them where Sam went after sufficiently sodomizing John’s wallet.  
“Dad...Dad...” Sam’s voice was urgent from the backseat. “Dad, you have to turn here...”It was a back road. A very familiar back road. Steve Wandell’s back road. John had been here a few times before, and everything inside of him screamed that he should just turn the fuck around now, turn the fuck around and pretend nothing had ever happened, that Sam had never left them, that this past week and a half was just a haze of booze and petty arguments. But he kept going, because Sam sounded so scared but so sure that this was where they had to go.And the knife in John’s pocket was feeling heavier by the minute.They passed the dismantled security system on their way into the house - the living room was wrecked, the carpet was soaked with blood, and Steve was dead on the floor. His eyes were open and his neck was a big, gaping hole.Dean got on his knees, started searching the body.“His name’s Steve,” John said. He was numb, and he saw no sense in hiding things from the boys anymore, because there was no sense in anything anymore. There were security cameras all over this place and there was a knife in John’s pocket and Sam, his baby Sam was blinking big puppy eyes down at a dead man he’d obviously once seen alive.“What do you know?” Dean demanded. The kid’s voice was harsh with accusation and John pulled out the knife, wiped almost clean from its contact with his leather.“This was in the back seat of the Beetle.” He nodded down at Steve’s corpse. “That’s Steve Wandell. He’s a hunter.”“Why didn’t you...” Dean trailed off, his green eyes sharp with fury. He got to his feet, grabbed his brother by the arm. “Never mind.”“Dean, I-”“Shut up, Sam. It’s fine, okay? Everything’s still fine.”“Nothing’s fine, Dean. I killed a guy, for chrissakes. I killed a hunter, and Dad’s trying to-”“Dad’s an idiot, okay? Just...don’t worry about him right now.”John sighed, trailed his boys into the den. He didn’t know what the hell had been  
going through his head when he’d hidden the knife. Keeping things from them was like instinct now. Anything to keep them alive and somewhat non-conflicted.Not for the first time, John wished that he had some semblance of control over the order of the world. John almost kind of wished he was God.Dean found the security monitors. Sam watched over his shoulder as they played the tape back. John didn’t watch at all. He didn’t need to. He was already pretty damn certain of what was on those tapes and he sure as hell didn’t need to see it - didn’t need to see his little boy going in for the kill.“Dad...Dad, I killed ‘im. Dad, I...”Dean wasn’t up for listening to this, that much was clear. The kid got up and started wiping off prints, his face expressing nothing but determination.“Sammy, shut up and clean up, will you?”“But I-”“Just do what I fucking tell you.”John continued staring numbly at the walls. “Dad.” Dean snapped his fingers in John’s face. “Stop it with the girl shit and get it the fuck together.”John got it the fuck together.It was hours later that they finally settled down for the night. “Settled” being a laughable word because Sam was placing guns in their hands and saying they had to do it, that it was time to do it, that it was over and that this was fucking it and John just wanted to run the fuck away.Not for the first time, John wished he wasn’t John. He wished he was God. Not for the first time, John wished he weren’t in his current predicament - it was the first time, however, that he would have preferred being back in Hell. Anywhere but here. _____________________________“Dean.”“No.”“I killed a guy, Dean. I’m going evil.”  
Dean put the gun away, turned his back on Sam’s body.“I’d rather die.”“Dad. Dad, you told him to. Before you died, you told him to.”“He’d rather die.”“Well, you...you’ll do what needs to be done, right? You always do what needs to be done. Dad, I need you to...I know it’s hard, but I need you to.”“I...Sammy, no. I can’t.”“Come on. You...Dad...you need to.” Tears spilled out of Sam’s eyes. “I’m evil. I killed a...a hunter. Dad, please.”“Sammy...I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.”They were both unconscious when Sam’s feet carried him out of the room. Trapped inside of his own body, Sam screamed for release.____________________________________“The fuck?”Dean’s head ached like a bitch.“Your brother’s gone.” Dad sounded numb as hell. The man was sitting on one of the beds, looking with sorrowful eyes at the carpet.“Yeah, well...we’ll find him.”Dad didn’t say anything to that. He just sat on that bed - that crappy fucking motel bed that looked like every other crappy fucking motel bed Dean had ever seen in every place he’d ever visited - and kept on looking at that shit brown carpet with those defeated fucking eyes.And for the second time since he’d brought the guy back to life, Dean wanted to hit the fuck out of his father.“Dad.” Just kept sitting there staring with those defeated fucking eyes.  
“Stop being a fucking girl.” Dad didn’t stop being a fucking girl.“Your brother-”“Shut up. We don’t know shit, yet, okay? None of this makes any fucking sense. Everything about this shit hole of a situation feels completely-”Metallica blared out of his pocket, effectively cutting him off. Jo’s name lit up the screen. Dean flipped open the phone. “Yeah?”D’you think Dad will be proud of me, Dean?Oh, fuck.“Sam?”Jo and I are pretending. She’s her dad and I’m our dad. We’re playing, Dean. We’re playing the game of how it all ends.“Where the fuck are you?”Aren’t you going to tell me not to hurt her?“Where the fuck are you?”Oh, Jo wants to talk to you.They were in Duluth. Duluth wasn’t far. Dean snapped his fingers in Dad’s face, practically pushed him out the door, threw him into the car. And Dean hauled ass to Duluth.The bar where Jo was now working was nicer than The Roadhouse. That was Dean’s first thought. His second thought was that this was a situation nobody would ever see at The Roadhouse- at The Roadhouse, you would never see Jo bound and gagged with a knife glinting at her throat. At The Roadhouse, you would never see Sam holding that knife, leering, looking like a bloodthirsty fucking animal.Dean desperately wished he was at The Roadhouse.  
“Sam, put the knife down,” Dad said. He actually sounded like he meant it, too, like he hadn’t completely given up, and Dean was kind of grateful for that.“Don’t you wish you’d killed me now, Daddy?”Dad glared. Dean remembered the lecture. The Never-Let-Them-Know-You’re-Pissing-Yourself lecture. Key word being “them”. Dad was looking at Sam like he was them. Sam wasn’t them, though. Dean would never let Sam be them.“Put the knife down, Sammy,” he said, and his footsteps were cautious. He approached his brother in the same manner he would approach a rabid wolf. Except Dean would never approach a rabid wolf.“You shouldn’t come any closer, Dean.”“Yeah? Why’s that?”And Sam looked at him, then, in the eye and his smile was feral and Dean felt so trapped that he wanted to jump out of his own fucking skin.Huh?Dean halted in his steps, took a breath. Yep. Something was clawing inside of him to get the fuck out. And that made absolutely no fucking...Oh.“Dude, christo.”Sam’s eyes went black.Relief flooded through every inch of Dean’s body.Dad swore something awful. Then he thanked God.Sam came at him like lightening then, tackled him to the floor, straddled him like a horny teenaged girl. Strong hands encased Dean’s neck.Dean choked through the hold even as the hands were loosening.Dad was reciting in Latin.Jo was straining against her ropes.  
Sam threw his head back. Black smoke emitted from his mouth like a geyser of vomit.All 6’4” of Samuel Winchester fell limp onto his big brother’s body. Dean coughed against his bruised throat, shouldered his baby sibling to the floor.“Dean?”“Yep.”“I, uh...”“Never sit on me like that again.”“Uh, yeah...sorry.”Dean looked up to see Dad cutting Jo loose. He had to give the girl credit - she didn’t look all that scared. Dad, on the other hand, looked like he could use about five hundred million stiff drinks to get over the trauma.“Dean?”“Yeah, Sammy?”“Did you, uh...how did you...”Oh, for chrissakes. Dean really didn’t want to get into this psychic shit right now.“I’m not a freak.”“I know you’re-”“You’re the freak.”“Dean.” Sam wanted him to be serious.“Dean.” Dad wanted him to be nice to his little brother.“What?” It had been a long week. Dean just wanted to go the fuck to sleep.


	22. TIME STAMPS

“What the fu-?”“Hey, Sammy.”Sam’s looking at him with big shock-stained eyes and John doesn’t blame him. It’s not everyday your old man comes back from the dead.“You have this under control, John?”Will have, John thinks. He gives a nod to the trench-coat adorned angel, who looks like he wants to smile. He doesn’t smile, though. These sorts never smile.“Cas? Cas, wait. Cas, you brought him back wrong! Why does he have a-”Castiel is gone before Sam finishes the sentence. John taps the paddle against his thigh.“So, Sammy, what’s this I’m hearing about sucking down demon blood?”“I, uh...”“Don’t try to explain. You can’t explain.”“But, Dad-”“No, Sammy boy. You can’t explain when there’s no reasonable explanation. Canyou tell me there’s a reasonable explanation?”“I-”“Don’t you dare lie to me.”“But-”John sits himself down on the motel bed. Pats his left thigh and looks to his 26-year-old expectantly.“No! You...what? Dad!”“Over here, little boy.”“But, you can’t...Castiel can’t possibly have meant-”John smirks. Sam’s looking everywhere for an escape, big puppy dog eyes searching the room frantically for an excuse, an argument, a right end to this   
debate that doesn’t really exist.“Angels are funny things, boy.”Sam's eyes finally settle on his father in a pretty picture of blue-green defeat. John almost sighs in relief, thinking that here he is. Here’s his little boy.And then Sam pouts. “They’re not funny, Dad. They’re not funny at all.”The dead man grins. “You’re right. They’re actually just big pains in the asses, aren’t they?” “Huge.”John holds out a hand. Sam looks at it, looks away, looks at it again. Looks at the ceiling. Looks at the door.Then he takes the hand, allows it to pull him to his father’s side.“I’ve missed you, Sammy.”“This really isn’t a good way to show it.”“Isn’t it?”“No. It isn’t.”“Huh.”John pulls his baby over his lap.“Your mom used to call you her little angel, you know. Did I ever tell you that?”“No, Dad. You never told me that.”“Well, she did. You were her little angel. And so help me God, kid, you’re gonna stay her little angel.”John swings the paddle down onto the seat of Sam’s jeans. The thwack is muffled. Sam shoots forward a little at the impact.“I’m not a little angel anymore,” he mumbles. “I...I can’t-”John swings again. And again. Sam whimpers.  
“It’s okay, baby. I’m here to change all that.”And again.______________________“Dad?”Sam is in the corner, bare-bottomed and sniffling, two hands rubbing at his red flesh. Dean’s blinking like John isn’t real. Just another ghost in another room.“Dean.”“Huh.”“Yep.”Green eyes flash over to young Sam. A wicked smirk graces his 30-year-old boy’s lips.“You know what he’s been like then?”“I know what he’s been like.”Dean looks back at him, bites his bottom lip, shuffles his feet a little.“What are you doing here?”“You needed me.”“Nobody needs you.”John is hurt. He doesn’t show it.“I know, Dean-o.”“You don’t know anything.”“I’m sorry.”“You’re always sorry.”“And you’re always so good, aren’t you, kid?”“I am. I’m so good. I’ve always been so freakin’ good and you’ve never given   
half a fuck. Where’s Castiel?” Dean looks at the ceiling. “He can take you back now. Cas, take him the fuck back now. I don’t want him.”Castiel doesn’t come.“You don’t?” John asks.“No. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I have Sam. Sam’s just like you. One of you is enough. Cas, get the fuck down here!”The kid’s hollering at the ceiling. He doesn’t see John move, is too busy calling that damn angel to fight against the grip as his father leads him to the bed.Dean tries to jerk away. “Don’t you fucking...I’m good. You said I was good. I’m so fucking good all the fucking time.”John draws the boy between his knees.“You are.”“Then let me the fuck go-”Dean tries to pull away, but John’s grip is like steel now and the swat he lands on his son’s behind is firm. Sam chokes on a sob from the corner.“Settle down, Dean.”He pulls the tall young man down onto his lap. Right side up. Strong arms encircle the muscular torso, pull the kid back into John’s embrace.Dean kicks him in the ankle with the heel of his boot. John doesn’t feel it.“Fuck you.”“Yeah. I know.”“Fuck...fuck you and fuck Sammy and fuck this fucking family.”“I know.”“Fuck Castiel.”“I know, Dean.”“Fuck Lilith. Fuck Lilith so fucking much. Fuck all the demons.”  
“All of them.”“Fuck God.”“Fuck God,” John agrees.The tears are running wild down Dean’s face. Sammy’s openly sobbing in the corner, head and hands against the wall.“Fuck everything.”John clings to his eldest, rocks quietly. He almost hums, but he refrains. Ten minutes. Dean breaks down in his shoulder and can’t get his breathing under control. Thirty minutes. Dean kicks his father, elbows his father, bites his father.John doesn’t let go.“You never took me to a goddamn baseball game.”“I’m sorry.”“And Sammy’s just like you.”“He’s going to be better now. Sammy? Tell him.”“I’m going to be better now.” Sam’s voice is small and broken.Dean melts into his father’s body for the second time.“It never gets better.”“It will.”“I’ll be better, Dean,” Sam says. And this time it sounds like he means it.Dean breathes. His breathing is ragged. John runs a hand down the boy’s spine, then over his hair, buries his face into his son’s neck and kisses the stubbled skin.“It’s going to be better?” Dean asks. John swallows. He says, “It’s going to be better.”He hopes fate doesn’t make a liar out of him.

 

“You’re real funny, Dad. Did I ever tell you that?”“No.”Dean squirms again when he feels the smooth wooden back of the hairbrush against his bared behind.“You’re really going to use that thing, aren’t you?”“Yep.”Dad swings the brush. Dean jumps at the impact.“Ow!“Uh huh.”Dean decides that the hairbrush is torture. Dad’s stoking some kind of incredible fire in his ass and Dean’s yelling and sobbing and trying to get away, but Dad pulls him easily back, shifts him, paddles his sit spots pink and then red before moving onto the backs of his thighs.“D-dad!” the word’s barely coherent between the tears and the snot and the huge lump of mucus in his throat. “Dad, p-please stop! M’sorry. I’ll...I’ll-” Dean forgets what the hell he did or didn’t do. “I’ll be good!”Dad gives him something like a dozen more swats. Dean isn’t sure. He tries to count them in his head, but he loses the numbers in between the crying and the yelling and the pleading.Dad stops, though, eventually, smoothes a coarse hand over the hot skin.“Dean...” The man’s voice is all gentle, and Dean knows all the girl stuff is about to happen. He’s okay with it, though, just this once. Because that really fucking hurt.Dad turns him right side up, hugs him close, rubs his back and all that shit and Dean sobs out his discomfort into the man’s neck, aching as much as he used to when he was four, when he used to bawl like hell over those tiny swats Dad told him were spankings.Those weren’t spankings. Spankings hurt like cocksucking whores.Dean calms down. His head’s fuzzy from the crying and he wants to crawl into   
bed and go to sleep and forget all of this.“Where you goin’, tiger?” Dad rumbles.“B-bed...”But Dad shakes his head. “No, Dean.”“No?”“Not yet, sweetheart.” Dad stands him up, looks him in the eye. “Why’s research important, Dean?”Dean sucks in a wavering breath. “Because...because lives are important. We need to research so we can s-strategize. We need to strategize so we can...can be safe.”Dad nods, and he looks proud, and Dean feels a little better for it.“That’s right, kiddo. So you know why I need you to finish your research right now...right?”Dean closes his eyes, wills himself not to cry like a little fucking princess about this.“Y-yessir. Yes, Dad. I understand.”“Good boy. So you understand why you earned yourself a spanking tonight...right?”“Y-yeah.”Dean’s pants are still around his ankles as Dad leads him over to the table. “I-”“Hold on, buddy.”Dad puts a pillow on the hard chair, pushes Dean gently down. Dean fidgets in place, looks up as the man places the bitten pencil in his hand.“You give me something substantial in a couple of hours. Then you can go to bed.”“Yessir.”  
Dean stares at the small print, feels Dad’s hand run over his head. He decides that research may suck a whole lotta ass, but it doesn’t suck nearly as much as Metallica’s 2003 failed effort, St. Anger. Really, nothing sucks more than that.  
Dean isn’t a little boy. Not anymore. Sometimes he forgets this, but then he reminds himself of the things he can do. Dean can do lots of things that little boys can’t. Dean can shoot guns and hustle pool and bloody the faces of the pricks not willing to give him their money. Dean can fuck girls in a way that is hard and unforgettable, or gentle and unforgettable. It doesn’t matter how he fucks them.They’ll never forget him. Dean Winchester is made of unforgettable awesome.Little boys can’t shoot and hustle and bloody. They can’t fuck, either. Or they can. But they shouldn’t. Which is why, five seconds ago, Dean said, “M’not a little boy.”And he isn’t. Dean’s a big boy now, as he scrambles across this unmade bed, claws into the mattress with blunt nails. Dean’s a big boy with his father’s hand wrapped around his ankle, a hand that is tugging him back like he’s a mere waif of a child and not at all a 180 pound man.Dean’s a big boy as he gives himself up, allows John Winchester to overpower him, turn him over, yank his jeans down, take away all that is private and self-possessed.Dean is smacked like a baby when he tries to squirm away. The jeans are off, the boxers are off, but Dean’s father doesn’t seem to have any plans on finishing the job. He just takes the empty articles in his arms and shuffles over to the three bags lined up against the motel wall. Dean’s bag is the messy bag.John rifles through the duffel, showing his irritation through his rough flinging of each individual piece of clothing. Dean turns over on the bed, facing ass-upwards, and it takes him just a little too long to get the gist of what his father is doing.“Dad?”“Yeah?” John grunts.“Why are you separating my clothes? We just did the laundry a couple of weeks ago...”John doesn’t reply with words, just a low growl. Like a dog who’s been trying too hard to be patient with a toddler.  
Dean doesn’t have the guts to press the issue. He continues to observe, watches as his dad folds and stacks T-shirts to the left. Piles of jeans and underwear and socks go on the right.Dean pipes up again, “Dad, not all the whites are together...”“We’re not going by color here, Dean-o,” John says in a tone that is almost gentle, like he’s talking to someone at least twenty years younger than Dean.Dean cocks a confused eyebrow at that, looks with intent eyes at the piles. He’s going to figure this one out. John just has to give him a little time.John finishes his job, whatever it is, puts the now neatly-folded shirts back in the bag. He takes the other pile in his arms, gets to his feet. Dean watches as the man heads to the door.“Dad, where are you taking my-” He stops abruptly. His brain sparks to life. His throat goes as dry as a Virginia river in the summertime. “Dad, no.”“Yes, Dean.”“You can’t...you can’t mean to...Dad! C’mon, dude, can’t you just do what you normally do? We don’t need to go this far.”“I spanked you last time. That clearly didn’t work.”“C’mon, Dad, you know I couldn’t resist...Dairy Queen had a special on banana splits, for chrissakes!” He jumps off the bed, intent on tackling his father and reclaiming his pants, but the man is quick to get out the door. John purposefully doesn’t close it behind him, and Dean stands in the open doorway, naked from the waist-down, glaring at this heinous bastard who is shoving all his precious clothing into the trunk of the Impala.“Cover yourself, Dean.”Dean doesn't move. John slams the trunk shut.The following session over his father’s knee leaves Dean sobbing and pissed off. Corner time is spent missing the feel of cotton and denim tangled around his ankles.Sam walks in and backtracks out. He stays out for another hour. When he returns, Dean’s red ass is in the air, his stomach to the mattress. Sam raises an eyebrow at the way his half-naked brother is nonchalantly flipping through the   
Weekly World News.“Dude, I know it hurts...but put on some pants.”“Can’t. Dad put them all in the trunk.”Sam doesn’t speak for a while. Dean is pretty sure its going to take about a year for his little brother to process that information.“You leave again?”“Dairy Queen had a-”“You moron.”“Yeah, yeah....”Dean spends the next three days walking around the room bare-assed. It’s hard at first. He tries to remain defiant. His modesty’s not going to get to Dean Winchester, and neither is his father. That’s what he tells himself when he doesn’t leave the bed the second day, anyway, desperate for John and Sam to leave the room.“Dean, get up and go to the bathroom.” His dad always knows. Dean doesn’t move. “You know, you never used to like pants.”“Yeah. When I was two.”“When you were two,” John agrees. Dean doesn’t get up. Not until his father says, “You gonna piss the bed, champ? Sammy, there’s a drug store a couple blocks away. Why don’t you go and get your brother some-”“No!” Dean’s pale ass is a blur. He slams the bathroom door shut behind him.He blames himself, really. He was, after all, the one who brought John back from the dead. Now he just has to deal with the fact that he'll always be Daddy's littleboy.

John’s black eye is drawing the attention of the drugstore clerk, who is scrawny and 18, with a face peppered with unfortunate acne to prove it.“Tha’s a helluva shiner, yo.”John ignores him. He’s not in the mood for urban lingo from a kid who’s never somuch as seen a city. He just wants the little bastard to ring him up so he can get the hell out of here and back to his boys.The kid’s not ready to give it a rest, however. He holds up John’s purchase, studies it with thoughtful eyes.“Didja wife sock ya one? Didja break her other one or somethin’?”“My wife is dead.”Mary’s been dead a long time. The words still sting leaving his mouth.The kid’s face pales. “M’sorry, mister.”“That’s okay. Just ring it up.”The kid doesn’t ask any more questions. John leaves with the bag in his hand.He finds the boys fretting quietly on a single bed, perched on the edge, Sam leaning absently into Dean as Dean stares at the floor. Sam’s head snaps up as John enters the room, then drops down again. John notes the ice pack dangling from his son’s hand, the large foot toeing the shit brown carpet.“Samuel, why isn’t that pack on your face?”The boy blinks at him with bruised eyes. “I-”“I don’t want to hear any excuses. Put it back on.” Sam gingerly touches the ice-filled bag to his face. Dean continues staring at the floor. “Dean. Front and center.”The kid groans, gets to his feet without looking at his father, drags himself over to the center of the room. Green eyes fall on the bag.“What’s that?”John holds the bag out. Dean accepts it with wary hands, digs into it, pulls out the wooden instrument. He blinks in horror.  
“Dad!”“Looks sturdy doesn’t it? I’m thinkin’ about writing your names on the back of it with a Sharpie. Give it more of a homey feel.”“What is it?” Sam asks, trying to peek from behind Dean. “Dean, what is it?”Dean whirls around, displays the wide, flat-backed hairbrush for his brother. Sam’s eyes widen and he stands on trembling legs, shakes his head adamantly.“No. Dad, no. We’re sorry. We didn’t know-”“We didn’t know they were freakin’ martial arts experts!” Dean interjects.“You baited them.”“We didn’t mean to!”“You didn’t mean to?” John is incredulous. Dean is desperate. Sam is practically hyperventilating. “You know you never bait after you hustle.”“We’re in enough pain as it is!” Sam pleads.“Yeah?” John looks at Dean, takes in the boy’s unmarked face. “Is that right, Dean?”Dean turns a scowl on his little brother, looks back at John in disdain. “Whatever you think is right, I guess.” John raises an eyebrow. Dean continues, “You’re the one who had to bail us out.”John nods, pulls the boy over to the empty bed. He takes a seat, somewhat surprised when Dean immediately positions himself over the awaiting lap before handing the hairbrush back to John. John sets the hairbrush on the bed. Best keep it for the end.“Doesn’t Sam have to go stand in a corner or something?” Dean asks, lifting his hips as his father skims his jeans and shorts down. “Isn’t that protocol?”John barely hears him, sucking air in between his teeth as he takes in the sight of his boy’s naked skin. There are bruises already forming, a nasty purpling splotch already taking shape, streamlining up from the curve of Dean’s left buttock to his lower back. John smoothes a gentle hand over the godforsaken thing, cringing internally as the boy flinches at the contact.“How’d you get this?”  
“Guy threw me into a table,” Dean answers with casual disregard.“Three times,” Sam adds.“Stop looking at my ass, Sam.” Dean attempts to turn halfway around in his father’s lap, eager to point an angry glare in his brother’s direction. John thwarts him with a light spank to unmarred flesh.“I’m not looking at your ass.”“Go stand in the corner. Dad, tell Sam to go stand in the corner.”“Quiet,” John rumbles. The boys obey, Sam falling back onto the bed and Dean hanging limply over John’s legs. “Dean-o, stand up for me.”“But-”“Dean.”The kid stands up, chewing nervously on his lower lip as his father gently tugs the pants down the rest of his legs, turns him around for inspection. The splotches of red and faint purple are minimal down to his ankles. It’s when John draws the shirt up that he sees the real damage - and the protests start.“Dude, I’m going to sic that douche from Dateline NBC on your ass,” Dean quips.John feels the opposition in the fabric as the boy tries to tug his shirt-front back down.“Chris Hansen?” Sam wonders aloud. “You’re not a fake 15 year old girl on the Internet, Dean.”“Sammy, go stand-” Dean halts his retort when John lands a firm swat on his right butt cheek.“Stop telling your brother to stand in the corner, Dean. That’s not up to you.”Dean quiets. Sam quiets. John finishes his inspection, pulls Dean’s shirt completely off the kid’s back, leaving his eldest standing naked and pissed off.“Sam, go get the aloe.”“Aw, man, I don’t want any aloe...”“Dean.” John runs a hand over his face. The boy fidgets on his feet when John   
lands a stern gaze on him. “No hustling. Two weeks.”“But-”“That hairbrush can come in handy after you’re healed, you know.”“That hairbrush will never come in handy,” Dean grouses, settling himself stomach-down onto the mattress.John sighs, orders Sam to go get ready for bed after the boy plants the bottle of aloe into his hand. Dean absently moans under the ministrations, affirming to John that his son really is in pain. The kid should be blushing red from head to toe right now - what with his father massaging the gel into the flesh of his bottom.It takes about three minutes to cover the worst of it, and Dean’s eyelids are slipping down. John covers his kid for the night, picks up the hairbrush when Sam exits the bathroom.“You bruised like your brother?”Sam shakes his head, looking nervous and regretful. “M’sorry, Dad...”“C’mere.”Sam trundles over, collects the three swift swats from John’s hand, looks surprised.“No hairbrush?”“Not tonight.”He tucks his youngest into bed, throws the hairbrush into his duffel knowing that it’ll come in handy. One day.

John remembers accidents. He doesn’t remember them well, but he remembers them. He remembers the look his boys would get, the rush of horror and the onset of humiliation, their faces the perfect illustration of need – a need to rewind, a need to flee, a need for this not to have happened.Dean is 23 and he does not have this look, not yet. He’s blinking slowly, trying to grasp his situation, trying to understand why his father is looking both furious and sympathetic.“Wha…” “You’re drunk.”“I know that.”“You just pissed yourself,” John explains, his voice somehow both terse and patient. “You’re so drunk you just pissed yourself.”It takes a few more moments, but eventually the boy’s mouth drops open ever so slightly and his eyes widen ever so slightly and his face goes ashen. And there’s the look.John is only half-surprised when the tears start rolling.“M’sorry…m’sorry!” The apologies are desperate. John doesn’t offer any forgiving words.He walks behind his son. Dean flinches and tries to bolt, but John grabs him around the waist, tells him to calm the fuck down. Then he pushes the boy forward, big hands on the broad shoulders, to the bathroom.“Take your clothes off, Dean.”John kneels next to the tub, turns on the faucet. He runs the water over his hand until it is verging on hot. He stoppers the tub. Watches the water accumulate.Dean is still dressed, pants wet, body shaking.“Dean…”“M’sorry, Dad.”John sighs, heaves himself off the floor. He draws Dean in by the waistband of the boy’s jeans, tries to not crinkle his nose at the acrid odor. He feels like 20   
years have been erased when he eases the pants and underwear down to the floor. Dean steps out of them, still trembling, hands fumbling downwards to cover his penis. John rolls his eyes, kicks the soiled garments with a booted foot to the corner of the room.“Dean. Shirt.”But the kid isn’t listening. He’s crying and shaking and still trying to understand.John pulls Dean’s hands up by the wrists so he can extricate the shirt from his boy. He inhales as he slides the article off Dean’s arms. It smells like cigarettes and perfume and unwashed child.The tub is full. John turns the faucet off.“Dean. In.”Dean stumbles trying to put a foot into the porcelain enclosure and John grabs him, runs a soothing hand over the boy’s arm.“I can…”“I know. You can.”John keeps his hold firm, eases the boy down. “I can…”“You can. Just not tonight.”Fresh tears spring out of the boy’s eyes when John soaps up a washcloth. He quiets down when John shushes him, when the warm water sluices over his shoulders and chest, when his father’s free hand rests on the back of his neck and rubs.“M’sorry.”“I know,” John says, and he tries to make his tone hard, but he can’t. His boys don’t know that sometimes he really has to try.The gentle words spark something in his intoxicated offspring, and the next thing he knows, Dean’s arms are around his neck and the boy is halfway out of the tub, sobbing into John’s shoulder.“Don’t leave me,” Dean pleads. “Please...don’t leave me.”  
Dean never tells him, not even when he’s drunk and uninhibited, but it’s always about Sam. John knows this. Dean knows this. Sam, who isn’t here, who hasn’t been here in months, probably knows this. They all know it, but nobody ever says anything.“I’m not leaving you, kiddo,” John says. He places his hand on the boy’s back, strokes his fingers with light comfort up and down the wet spine. “I’m right here.”Dean melts into him. John feels like the elephant in the room is now caught in his throat. He swallows it down with great effort.Dean’s teeth lightly pinch his father’s shoulder when the washcloth touches his bottom. “Dean.”“S-sorry...”The kid remains on his knees, keeps his arms wrapped around John as the older hunter runs the cloth over his behind and genitals with clinical precision. John swaddles him in a towel when he finishes, dresses the boy in briefs and a T-shirt like he used to when the kid was eight and too tired to dress himself for bed.“Don’t leave.”“I’m not leaving.”He’s not leaving. Not tonight.He hopes Dean doesn’t remember any of this in the morning. Dean feels shame easily and forgetting has always been hard for John’s oldest. He hopes the boy won’t remember the accident, because they happen. Still. Always. He doesn’t want Dean to remember the bath, either, or how his father tenderly washed him,because tomorrow John won’t be so nice. Most of all, John hopes that Dean doesn’t remember those words. I’m not leaving. Because the next time Dean drunkenly makes that plea, John will already have left.  
The waitress tells him to pay at the front and Sam wonders, again, when Steak ‘n Shake obtained waitresses. Places with drive-throughs shouldn’t have waitresses, he thinks, it isn’t right. It throws him off-guard and off-balance and its a feeling that Sam has never liked.So he pays at the front for his strawberry milkshake. The guy asks how it was and Sam tells him that it was good, even though it was just okay and the milk and ice cream and whipped cream and maraschino cherry are actually weighting down his stomach and churning and he doesn’t like the feeling. It’s too heavy. Everything’s heavy right now.Sam Winchester is a heavy boy. Man, he means. Sam is a man. Sam is twenty-three years old and all man. Not a boy. Dad calls him a boy and Dad is always wrong about something.He goes out as a group of teenagers come in and they are dressed in black and have black lipstick and there is a boy with glittering red eyeshadow. He notices that Sam has noticed, and he passes by with an aggressive shove to Sam’s arm.Sam sighs as he walks into the parking lot. His cell phone is vibrating in his pocket and he knows that it is either Dad or Dean on the other line with Dad or Dean by the other’s side, demanding to know where Sam went off to because Sam is not allowed outside alone, or in a public bathroom alone, or behind a tree alone. Sam is not allowed to exist alone, much less enjoy a strawberry milkshake without his father or his brother watching every sip of sweet pleasure.He hates fucking Sandusky. It’s grey and cold and all the girls who don’t wear black lipstick have the same bleach blond hair. At first glance, anyway. Sam is not willing to look past the first glance. He hates the hell out of Sandusky and he doesn’t want another ass beating when he gets back to the motel.In the parking lot, too many cheerleaders pour out of a small red car and they giggle at Sam as they walk by. One is too forward and grabs his ass and another puckers up her plump pink lips and coyly greets him with, “Hey, baby.” His stomach churns with strawberries and cream. Sixteen-year-old jailbait has always made Sam want to vomit, even when he, too, was sixteen and jailbait. He just wants to be left alone, but he doesn’t know where to go and the air is cold and the sky is grey and darkening. Sam can see his breath as he exhales and the freezing air does a number on his lungs, but he keeps walking and looking left and right, trying to decide whether or not to go back to Dean and Dad because this small town is lacking in everything but steaks and fucking shakes and he already drank the shake and Sam has never been much for the steaks. Steak is meat. There was life in meat once and Sam feels like meat now.  
That isn’t to say that Sam feels much like eating meat. He just feels like he is meat. Empty flesh waiting around to be eaten, because there isn’t much to do and he can’t do much. Ava’s gone and Sam’s heart is probably a beat away from turning some kind of horrific black. And there’s no sense in going home. Back to the motel, rather, because Sam doesn’t have a real home, just the home that Dad and Dean make up, and going there now means a spanking and he doesn’t want a spanking. Spankings are for boys, and Sam is twenty-three and all man.He hears the Impala before he sees it. The motor is loud even as it slows down behind him and Dean rolls down the driver side window and calls, “Hey, Sammy Sasquatch, get the fuck in!”Sam gets in and buckles up. He doesn’t meet Dean’s gaze, just grips the oh-shit handles as his brother turns the large car too tight and too fast in the direction of their home-at-the-moment.“What the hell is going through your head, dude?” Sam shrugs and Dean hits him lightly on the back of the head. “Well, where were you?”“Steak ‘n Shake.”Dean is silent for a moment and Sam can almost feel the wave of shock and anger emanating from his brother. “Man...I can’t believe you went without me. I hope it was worth it. Dad is going to beat your ass.” Sam shrugs again. “Well?”“Well what?”Dean snorts. “What do you mean ‘well what’? What kind of shake did you get?”“Strawberry.”A long moment passes. Dean lets out a breath. “Strawberry,” he mutters, and shakes his head. “You could get anything. You could get a Side-by-Side or a Sippable Sundae and you get a strawberry shake.”“We don’t all have to be ostentatious about our food, Dean.”“Yeah? Well strawberry is the gayest of all the classics.”Sam doesn’t respond to that, just knocks a fist into his brother’s thigh and waits silently as the car coasts them safely to the motel.Dad looks up from a book when they walk in the door. There’s no emotion on his face, but he gestures with a hand for Sam to come forward. Sam doesn’t   
immediately obey, so Dean pushes him with a light hand to the center of Sam’s back.“I’m going to Steak ‘n Shake,” Dean says thoughtfully, turning back to the door. “I’m gonna get a chocolate mint and banana Side-by-Side. You want anything, Dad?”Dad doesn’t want anything and Dean leaves, but not before watching his father take his little brother by the waistband of his jeans. Dad tugs Sam forward. Sam squirms on his feet, clenches his buttocks in fearful anticipation of what’s about to happen. He yearns to be alone again.“I just wanted to be alone,” he tells his father.Dad doesn’t care what Sam wanted. Sam’s on restriction, and Ava or no Ava, he has no excuse for leaving and not answering his phone.“I got a strawberry milkshake,” Sam offers. Pleasantries and small talk have never worked on his father, though, and Dad starts to unbutton his jeans with a frown. “My stomach hurts,” he adds as he is thrown expertly over Dad’s knee. He feels his boxers come down and he takes the bedspread in his fists. It’s humiliating, but Sam doesn’t blush. He doesn’t even cry, and he always cries. He cries way to easily for a boy of his age.Man, Sam reminds himself as Dad peppers his backside with mild swats. I’m a man, now.Dad is saying things. Lecturing. Sam isn’t listening. He focuses instead on the coarse palm and its steady rhythm. Right cheek, left cheek. Sam is pink and tender. Sam is the meat and Dad is the hammer.And then Dad stops, stands Sam up. Sam feels his father’s large hands grip his hips, lets them guide him to stand between the older hunter’s legs. Sam should be blushing. Standing like this means he’s been both bad and a boy.“The strawberry milkshake,” Dad says as he draws Sam’s boxers up over the rosy bottom and exposed privates, “was it good?”Sam shrugs. “It was okay.”He perches himself without preempt onto his father’s thigh, allows the man to brush away a few stray tears that Sam was previously unaware of. Sam tucks his head into Dad’s neck.“Your stomach still hurt?” Dad asks.  
“Yeah, kinda.”“Was it worth it?”Are you sorry? Dad wants to ask. Dad wants Sam to be a remorseful little boy, but Sam’s not feeling it at the moment.He shrugs. “It wasn’t not worth it.”“No?”“It just was.”Dad tightens his arms around Sam. He doesn’t say anything else, but Sam nestles further into him. His bottom is warm and tingling with sting against his father’s thigh. They’re still like that when Dean comes in, styrofoam cup in hand,mouth around a straw.“Dude, I hate places that have waitresses and drive-throughs. It’s like they’re trashy and classy at the same time. I don’t get it, man.” Dean likes to babble when faced with awkwardly affectionate situations. Sam gets up when Dad gives him an encouraging pat, allows the man to deposit him into a bed.Sam hates the hell out of Sandusky. Or he tells himself he does. He doesn’t really care too much at this point. Drive-throughs and waitresses. Boys with red-eyeshadow and high school cheerleaders with dick-sucking lips. Sam doesn’t really get it, either.“Was it worth it, Sammy?”“Dean, leave your brother alone.”“He doesn’t really seem to care too much...you sure you-”“Dean...”Worth it and not worth it. Man and boy. Ava and no Ava.“It wasn’t not worth it,” Sam tells his brother from the bed.Sometimes it all gets too muddled. He didn’t want a spanking, but he doesn’t really care that he got one. Dad is looking at Sam like he doesn’t know what to do with him. Sam doesn’t know what to do with Sam either. His stomach feels heavy and he keeps thinking about milkshakes and strawberries and meat.

Unlike his father and brother, Sam sheds tears without shame. He’s never felt a reason not to - not even when he was 12 and Dad was drunk and yelling in his loud and angry voice, the voice that would sometimes have Sam running scared to Dean who was never scared of anything, because Dad was yelling at Sam to suck it up, be brave, don’t cry. But Sam cried then anyway, as he cries now, because he is defiant and refuses to comprehend social stigmas that will restrict him from necessary release. Like when he was 12 and living in a motel with only one bed, and he was sharing that one bed with Dean and sometimes with Dad, and quarters were tight and Sam had reached puberty. Sometimes he would hear Dean jerking off in the bathroom and he would cover his mouth to keep from giggling when his brother came waltzing out, for fear of being beaten. Dean would have teased him, Sam knew. He knew it then, as he knows it now, so he feels no regret that he used to jerk off in the boy’s restroom in the middle of fifth period Social Studies.Now Sam is 23 years old and doesn’t have the privacy that middle school afforded him. Dad and Dean are always just outside the door when Sam is taking a piss, always in the room when Sam is in the room, and Sam just wants to scream at them to leave him the fuck alone, go the fuck away, but he can’t. Because then he’ll be over Dad’s knee getting his ass beaten red.He has taken to jerking off in the shower. Sometimes Dad comes in to tell him something, or Dean comes in to piss, but Sam doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He is defiant and unabashed and this is their fault.“Sammy,” Dad says now. “Sammy...what’s wrong?”Dad doesn’t yell at him for crying anymore. Dad is concerned. Sam can hear it in the low, tired voice and feel it in the soothing fingers that card through his long hair. Sam doesn’t respond, just continues sobbing into his pillow. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Dad or Dean or God. Sometimes Sam just feels like crying, so he cries. He’s a human being, and as such, crying is his inherent right.Dad lays down next to Sam and Sam turns on his side, away from the man, bites his lip and tries to quell the tears because Dad is too close and Sam doesn’t want him asking any more questions. But Dad doesn’t ask any more, just throws an arm over Sam’s waist, pulls him in like he used to when Sam was small and fit into Dad the way only a son could fit into a father.Dean saunters in a short while later, a six pack tucked under his arm, and Sam sits up, jerks himself out of his father’s arms. His brother doesn’t ask and Sam doesn’t tell, and Dad takes the hint and remains silent.Sam latches on to his beer like an infant to a tit. Dean turns on the television,   
tunes in to Bewitched on TV Land, starts blathering on about how Elizabeth Montgomery was hot in the way that moms are hot, but Barbara Eden was hot in the way that girls are hot. Dad tells him to shut the fuck up and respect women and Dean grins, sets an empty beer bottle on the nightstand and reaches for a new one.“Wanna ‘nother beer, Sammy?” Dean asks and Sam nods, tips the last of what he has into his mouth before accepting the full bottle out of his brother’s hand. “You okay there, kiddo?”Kiddo. Dean only calls Sam kiddo when he’s feeling paternal, and Dean only feels paternal when Dad’s not around. But Dad is here and now Sam is confused,like the world has taken a sharp turn and jumbled his head, so now he doesn’t know what direction he’s headed in.“Where are we going?” Sam asks. His head is fuzzy from the crying. He knows that he’s asking this question for a reason, but he doesn’t know what that reason is.“Haven’t decided, yet,” Dad says, eyeing Sam like he would a suspicious package. “Where do you wanna go, Sam?”Sam wants to go forward, but he doesn’t know which direction that is, and if Sam doesn’t know, then Dad and Dean definitely don’t know. Because Sam is the smart one. There was even a time when Sam had a ten-year-plan, but that was a long time ago, months ago, maybe even a year ago.“Dunno,” Sam mumbles.He knows that they’re not really going to go anywhere - they’re just going to end up back here in this motel room with its crappy paintings and rickety furniture and stained carpet. They could go thousands of miles away and they’ll still be here and Sam will still be crying and Dad and Dean will still be pretending that they don’t understand why.“I wanna go to Vegas,” Dean pipes up. “We could hit up some casinos and strip clubs and-”“We’re not going to Vegas,” Dad cuts him off. “Sammy, pick someplace sensible.”Sam tries to think of someplace sensible. Where is sensible? What is sensible? Is this motel sensible? Sam picks at a loose thread on the blue floral bedspread, pulls it, watches it come out inch by inch. He wonders how far the thread goes, how long it will allow itself to be pulled along before it snaps.  
“The shower,” Sam says.“Huh?” Dean is confused. Dad is confused, too, but too stoic to admit it.“The shower. I’m gonna go to the shower.”“Sam, you just took a shower,” Dad reminds him. “A couple of hours ago. You’re clean.”Sam is clean. Sam is very clean. Clean and sensible and defiant and unabashed and not at fault for any of this.“I need to masturbate,” he says, thinking that this might or might not be true. The bed squeaks when he gets up. “Don’t bother me.”The door shuts behind him with a click. He would feel gratified if it weren’t for Dean’s muffled voice shining in tones of awe to Dad, “Sam must be more into the Elizabeth Montgomery side of classic television.”  
“Stay put, Dean.”John’s always saying those words to this kid now. He knows perfectly well that he shouldn’t have to, knows that at the age of 27, Dean should have some semblance of self control.But the experience of the past week has taught John otherwise. Dean isn’t a boy to be confined by his father’s words or fear of the law. On the contrary, the kid’s a spitfire without a lick of common sense.John closes the car door, waits for Sam to unfold himself from the front seat. The rest area is pretty typical and conveniently empty, except for a couple of truckers and one or two families, and John rests a warm hand on the back of Sam’s neck, gives the boy a little squeeze before pushing him in the direction of the restrooms. Kid’s been a veritable saint recently, really, what with his brother constantly getting his butt toasted.There are vending machines placed between the men and women’s respective sides and John sees Sam’s eyes flicker to the beverages before the tall boy starts rummaging through his pockets, pulling out empty fabric. John almost laughs at the palpable disappointment on the kid’s face.“I got some change, Sammy. Bathroom first, though, eh?”“I’m an adult, Dad. I don’t need your change.”John cocks a thick eyebrow, smirks a little as he pushes his son into the restroom. “How’re you gonna get it then?”“Probably the old fashioned way. Y’know from the machines them sel-” Sam stops himself abruptly.There’s a grizzly cop in the restroom, about 60, giving them a side stare as he zips up and flushes. Guy’s got keen ears, John’s guessing, with the way he’s now looking at Sam.“What’s the old-fashioned way, again, son?” he asks.Sam looks to the ground, shuffles his feet. “Uh, I...I was just-kidding?”“But I really wanna know,” the man says, and he pushes out his chest. His badge glints in the dim florescent light. John’s torn between amusement and irritation - while it might be a little funny that Sam’s not-so-great plan backfired   
before it could even be realized, John Winchester really can’t stand anyone bullying his sons. Especially not right in front of him.He clears his throat. “I imagine, sir, that my son’s version of the old-fashioned way involves getting some quarters out of his daddy’s wallet. Isn’t that right, Sam?”A pretty blush rises on the boy’s cheeks, but he nods. “Yeah, Dad. That was the plan all along.” Sam smiles cheekily, like his big brother would in this situation, brushes by the cop to a stall. Wants to piss alone now, John guesses.“Just a little father/son banter, officer.” John keeps charm and humor in his voice, almost pops the guy one a-little-to-hard in the shoulder. “Don’t be so paranoid, huh?”The cop’s looking testy, but he gives John a terse nod before swaggering bowlegged out of the restroom. There’s a tinkling noise, the beginning of Sam’s stream hitting the bowl, and John frowns as he situates himself at a urinal. His sons aren’t usually so easily intimidated. “You feelin’ okay, Sammy?”“M’pissin’, Dad. I feel fine.”The curt declination isn’t much, but it’s enough. John hears the hurt pride in Sam’s voice, the desire to be alone.He finishes and shuffles to a sink, washes up. Sam doesn’t come out. John pulls out his wallet, counts out five quarters, puts them on the sink by the faucet.“Sammy?”“Yessir?”“M’gonna get back to your brother. I left you some quarters on the middle sink, okay?”“Uh huh.”“We wanna be out of here in about 15. Alright, kiddo?”“Yessir.”John leaves the restroom, thinking about how his little one probably should have come out a girl, and how his eldest could probably do with some snacks of his   
own. The latter thought quickly becomes a moot point because Dean is at the vending machine and John skids to a stop upon the sight of his son bending down to retrieve his purchases. The cop is standing to the side, leaning his shoulder against a different machine, watching Dean with a small smile on his face.“So then this girl comes in,” Dean’s saying, “And dude, she’s....she’s just incredible. Seriously her...?” Dean motions to his own chest, snack food package dangling between two fingers, gesturing to bodily enhancements that don’t exist.“Epic. Seriously. Epic.”Cop looks amused beyond reason. John’s insides are boiling with fury and disgust, though his face remains stoic.“I see at least one of my sons amuses you, officer,” he says, and Dean jumps like a freaked-out squirrel. John places a hand on the back of the boy’s neck, squeezes just a little too tight.“This one’s funny,” the cop concedes. “And he didn’t steal from the machines.”“Sammy stole from the machines?” Dean asks, and John sees the nervousness skitter through the green of the boy’s eyes. “Tsk.”“Sammy didn’t steal from the machines.” John tries not to snap, but fails, somewhat. “He was just joking.”The cop doesn’t look like he believes a word of it, but John doesn’t give half a fuck. The only thing about this guy that he cares about right now is that he’s a cop and Dean is here, right in fucking front of him.“Excuse us.”The cop opens his mouth to say something else, but John’s already leading Dean off, is gripping the kid by the back of the neck like a bitch with a naughty puppy.Dean holds up the rectangular package in his hand, tries to turn his head so he can get his imploring look to meet John’s stern face, but can’t because John’s not going to take any imploring looks right now. He gives the boy’s butt a swat to keep him on the path to the car. Dean’s neck and ears flush red.“Somebody might have seen that,” the kid hisses.“Shoulda thought a’that before you decided to leave the car.”  
“Just wanted vending machine pie...” Kid’s still holding up the package. John plucks it out of his hand, shoves it in one of his own jacket pockets. He opens the door behind the passenger seat of the Impala.“But-”John pushes the boy down in the back seat with a low growl. Dean falls onto his behind with a startled expression, boots kicking up gravel as he propels himself backwards into the car. “Lay down.”“Why?”John can’t take the question or the tone in which the question is proffered. He pushes Dean down with a firm hand so that the kid is on his back, starts untying the boots.“Privacy is a freedom, Dean. You obviously don’t want your freedom.” The foot in his hand jerks. John smacks lightly at the boy’s calf. “You’re not three. Don’t start any nonsense.”“Dad, what’s going on?”Sam’s behind him, popping open a can of Coke. John turns around, shoves Dean’s boots at the kid.“Wha-”“Put them in the trunk.”“Why?”“Because your brother’s in trouble. Again.”Sam shrugs and does as he’s told. Boy doesn’t seem to care too much about his brother’s pride, at this point. John doesn’t either, as his fingers move to unbutton Dean’s jeans.Dean’s moaning and groaning and bitching and saying “no” with too many “o’s” on the end. To John, it sounds just like spanking preparations did 23 years ago, only with a lower pitch.But he’s not listening, and Dean’s struggling and kicking and he usually doesn’t   
act out like this but John’s grateful for it this once. The backseat is a cramped space and the denim comes off easier with a little help. Dean’s not wearing any underwear, which is not strategically smart at all, and is something John will lecture him about later.“Give ‘em back!” Dean’s face is flushed and enraged, and John feels a tantrum coming. A tantrum from a 27-year-old that should probably be nipped in the bud, so he grabs the kid by calves and forces them up, bends Dean’s knees so they’re against the boy’s torso, spanks as much of Dean’s bare bottom and thighs as he can reach until the skin is stinging and pink.Dean’s covering his face with his hands, feet jerking into the ceiling. John sees tears of humiliation running from the corners of his son's eyes into the short-cropped hair and he lets up, eases the long legs so they can rest on the car floor.“It’s been less than a week, Dean.” John keeps his volume quiet and his tone stern. “You know I’ve never found your recklessness cute. And deliberate disobedience? That’s just ugly, son.”“Can I have a blanket?”John obliges, backs away. Sam’s keeping an eye out, perched on the hood, sipping his coke. There isn’t anybody around, though John sees the cop in the distance, guarding the vending machines like a junkyard dog. He throws the ripped jeans into the trunk and pulls out a blanket. Dean holds out a hand for it, but John leans in, tucks the thin fabric around his boy’s waist.“Dean, just...behave, okay? Until this whole wanted-by-the-police thing blows over a little?”Dean doesn’t meet his gaze, though he gives a slight nod.John doesn’t apologize. He throws Sam the keys and the three of them go on their merry way. As Sam drives, John shoots looks back at Dean, who keeps his face turned into the seat, purposefully ignoring them. The blanket is small, and the boy’s feet must be cold, because he’s more set on keeping them covered than his ass which is peeking out between his shirt and the fleece.John doesn’t apologize.It’s only about 15 minutes before he shuffles through his pockets and pulls out the plastic-wrapped pastry, however.  
“Dean?”Dean makes a noise, but doesn’t turn around.John leans back, balances the pie on his boy’s bare hip.“For when you’re hungry.”Dean makes another noncommittal sound. Sam slaps his father lightly on the arm with the back of his hand.“Sammy?” John asks.“Girl,” Sam replies. “You’re such a girl, Dad.”It’s true, John realizes as he hears the telltale crackle of plastic from the backseat. John Winchester is a big freakin’ girl.

farthest from the door, stomach to the mattress, legs trailing off to the floor. The boy is observing him with wise eyes and John feels inexplicably embarrassed. He clears his throat as Sam finally looks away, moves himself fully onto the bed.“You wanna tell me why you’re not eating, Sammy boy?”Sam looks at him again, his gaze steady and unnerving as he replies, “If you wanna tell me why you’re not eating.”John doesn’t. He settles next to his tall son on the bed, cards a hand through the long hair. Sam shifts closer to his father, and they don’t talk, but their bodies are touching, reassuring, and they both know where they are and where the other is, because Sam’s arm is touching John’s arm and Sam’s breath is warm against John’s neck.“You can drink,” Sam offers after a while. “I know you do. I don’t mind.”The soup boils. John swallows the flow down as best he can.“Who needs to drink?” he asks gruffly. “I’ve got you, don’t I?”Sam doesn’t respond, but John feels the boy lean into him and his words feel like a little less of a sham.Blood. Fire. Blades. He awakes with a jolt, his shirt soaked with sweat. Sam groans next to him, turns on his side, away from John. The light is still on. The other bed is still empty.John wipes a hand over his face, rubs his eyes. The time on the alarm clock blazes red. 3:32.The weights are elephants and everything around them explodes. John’s hands tingle with nerves, and his breathing hitches and he walks quickly to the bathroom as quietly as he can. He vomits once into the toilet, and muffles the sounds of the following dry heaves into a towel. He doesn’t want to wake Sam.He walks back out, settles on the empty bed. Waits.Not everything is here. Not everything is pretty.It’s only fifteen minutes until the door eases open, but it feels like three weeks. Dean shuffles in, sees John, looks sheepish. He opens his mouth to make an excuse or an apology but is interrupted by his father, who is fast and angry and half-crazy with worry.  
“Wha-” Dean tries to say, staring down at his father’s hands, hands that are rough, but efficient, in the process of unfastening Dean’s jeans. The older hunter is both swift and severe as he tugs the garments down. John doesn’t care if he wakes Sam.He tosses the boy over his lap, crashes his hand down on his son’s pale backside over and over and over again. The swats are hard and without mercy, and Dean starts yelping almost immediately, tries to say he’s sorry, that he got held up, and would John just give him a chance to explain? John won’t. Sam is sitting up and trying to look away. John understands why he can’t. This is a train wreck.Dean’s bottom blushes ruby, speckles purple. The kid’s sobbing is loud and uninhibited. His words are incoherent. Sam is pleading with his father to stop, tears running down his own cheeks.“Dad...Dad, please....Dad...” Sam is saying and Dean is saying something similar through his own tears and snot.John finally hears them. He stops abruptly. His hand is in the air and he settles it down on his son’s back. Somewhere inside of him he knows that he has no right to offer this comfort, but Dean takes it for a second before sliding off of his father’s lap. John is awash with guilt and he looks down at his son, who is kneeling on the floor, eyes vivid green from all the tears hungry with need.“I’m sorry, baby,” John says. It’s not a name he uses for Dean, and in any other circumstance, he’s sure his son’s objections would be loud and vehement. But as it is, Dean throws himself back into John’s lap, clings to his father, aches for affection like a dog kicked by his master.“M’sorry...m’sorry...” the apologies are hoarse and repetitive and John’s child is traumatized at the age of 27. “A girl got mugged. I had...had to help her, you know? And the cops wanted a statement...”John feels sick. He asks Sam to go get the first aid kit and the kid does, but not without glaring at John first. John deserves the glare. Arnica gel. John keeps his arms around Dean while he deposits it into his palm, eases his son up momentarily so he can apply it to the tender behind. Dean is tired and confused and in pain, and he doesn’t protest them barrassing act of paternalism. He doesn’t protest when John puts him to bed bare, just reaches out a disoriented hand and asks him not to go.John doesn’t. For the first time in weeks, Sam sleeps alone. The weight in John’s stomach is on vacation, leaving behind nothing but an empty   
aching pit that John feels he deserves. He will not try to make it go away.Tomorrow, there will be no soup for John Winchester.

John remembers when Dean was 24 and the boy was perpetually drunk and hopelessly aimless. He remembers the frequency with which Dean went out and drank himself half to death. He remembers the boy stumbling into the door, smelling like alcohol and vomit and sex, slurring out apologies for being late and non-functioning, and could they talk about it in the morning? And John remembers restricting his grown son for three days, keeping a close eye on him,and how it took him, John, until the third day to see the 3-inch knife wound still angry and jagged from lack of care down the side of the boy’s right arm. And the kid hadn’t complained once.So now John can’t help but think he’s been spoiling his oldest, when the kid is pretty much demanding sympathy for…for…“Dude, it’s a paper cut,” Sam chortles again. It’s the third time the younger boy has poked fun and it’s the third time that John has bit his tongue to keep from smiling. “It’s fucking painful, is what it is,” Dean snaps in response, green eyes watching intently as his father gently wraps the wounded finger in a triple antibiotic-coated bandage. John finishes up, taps the boy warningly on the thigh.“You watch your mouth.”Dean glares, crosses his arms, lets loose a huff worthy of Sam. John stands up, crosses his own arms, waits for the kid’s body to loosen, submit. Dean eventually unfolds himself, though he does so with a sigh, peers up at his father through long lashes.“M’sorry,” he grunts.“That was your last warning,” John replies, smoothing a hand over the kid’s short hair. “You’re gonna wanna watch yourself for the rest of the day, clear?”“Yessir.”John nods, satisfied with his son’s tone. He picks up the box of band-aids, and the tube of ointment, and the magazine that caused this whole mess.“Dad, I paid good money-““I don’t care. Thirteen or twenty-seven, Dean, I still expect you to hide this shit from me. I’m your father. I feel scandalized.” And with that, John dumps the offending copy of Busty Asian Beauties into the room’s small wire wastebasket, smiling internally at the soft moan that escapes his eldest’s mouth.  
The first aid kit is sitting on the bathroom counter. John tucks the box and the tube back into their respective places, zips the kit closed. He shuts the door, figures he might as well relieve himself while he’s in here. Not to mention that sometimes these days just having a door between himself and the boys is a welcome vacation.“Aww…does it hurt less now that Daddy put Neosporin on your band-aid?” Sam’s voice comes muffled through the door, but the words are highly discernible.“Yeah, it does. Too bad Neosporin won’t be able to help you after I pound your freakishly tall ass into oblivion.”John hears the telltale squeak of mattresses as one boy strikes and the other evades. Then the pounding of two pairs of gigantic feet as they hit carpeted floor.“Boys!”He’s quick to zip up, and he immediately regrets the time he takes to wash his hands when he hears the sound of something big crashing to the floor. John yanks the door open, skids back into the room, lets his mouth fall agape momentarily.He snaps it shut, allows his eyes to soak in the scene of Sam standing over the fallen TV with the now-cracked screen. The boy’s hair is in his face, but his hands have already flown guiltily behind his back, every muscle in his body tense as he shifts on his feet. Dean stands between the two beds, eyes big as saucers as he looks at the destruction.“We should probably leave so we don’t have to pay for this…” the older boy trails off as soon as he meets his father’s furious eyes. “…or, uh…not?”John takes in a calming breath, counts to himself. Dean fidgets. Sam glances at his father through tousled bangs.“You’re right. We should leave,” the older hunter finally says, and twin sighs of relief fill the room. “Riding to the next town over on sore butts should be a nice reminder of why we don’t roughhouse in close quarters.”Before either can protest, John has his youngest by the bicep, and he’s steering the kid to the nearest corner. Sam squawks when his pants come down, drop to his ankles, and something akin to a wail emits from his mouth when his father yanks his well-worn boxers down to join them.“Dean’s going first. You stay right here and don’t move.”  
“Why do I have to go first?”John really isn’t in the mood for whining, even if it’s almost refreshing coming from Dean. The boy’s not having on with his usual guilt-complex about this, and that’s nice, but right now, John wants apologies and remorse and M’sorry-Dad-I’ll-never-do-it-agains. So he takes Dean by the hand, like he used to when the boy was three even though this isn’t going to be the tiny swat that it was back then, pulls the kid gently over to the bed. He isn’t surprised when Dean stumbles along sullenly behind him, stance rigid as John sits and draws his oldest between his knees. HES kind of surprised, however, to see the nearly-restrained pout. Dean’s not usually one for pre-punishment pouting. That’s more Sam’s thing.“What’s with the lip, kiddo?” John asks. He unbuttons the boy’s jeans, though he doesn’t take them down quite yet. He looks up at Dean’s confused expression.“I didn’t give you any...did I?” And the kid looks suddenly worried, which is kind of normal and kind of not.John raises an eyebrow, pulls Dean down to sit on his thigh. “Not that kind of lip.” And his touch is so gentle that it’s barely there when he taps his son’s bottom lip twice. “This lip. What’s got you pouting?”Dean scowls. “Sam’s the one who knocked the TV over.”“And I’m bettin’ you’re the one who ran him into it. You got anything else to add?”“You can’t spank me,” Dean declares, and John’s so surprised he forgets to hide his smile this time.“Yeah? Why’s that?”“I’m injured.” And Dean holds up his bandaged index, smile bright and triumphant and full of smart ass glee.John really doesn’t know what to say to this, so he says nothing, just stands the boy back up so he can get the goddamned jeans down. He notes that Dean’s boxers are threadbare and riddled with holes and he glares at them with open disdain before jerking them down.He pulls the boy over his lap and lights in, cracking his hand down on one pale cheek, then the other, slow and steady in his ministrations. Dean is silent and   
his eyes are open and John follows the boy’s gaze as he spanks, his eyes settling on the voluptuous woman peering out from behind the wire cage of the wastebasket.“Oh for God’s sake,” the older man groans, wishing to Hell that he’d torn the damn thing up when he’d confiscated it. He shifts the boy on his knee, upending him to get his palm on those tender sit spots. Dean yelps and kicks out, but John doesn’t stop until the butt slung over his lap is nice and dark and radiating a sufficient amount of heat.“Switch places with Sammy,” he orders, giving the boy's sore behind one last hard smack -- and Dean yips like a puppy before stumbling up from his father’s lap and shuffling bare-assed over to the corner.Sam waddles over with his pants at his ankles and his hands over his privates, tears already in place. This one’s modest, unlike his brother.“I didn’t mean to break the TV,” he sniffles, and John just can’t take it. He can’t look at the damn kid without thinking about telling him that’s it’s alright, who cares about the damn TV or the damn motel, anyway? But it’s not alright and John believes in finishing what he’s started so he pulls the boy over his lap and spanks the kid until he sobs.“You know better than to tease your brother,” he scolds, his hand hard as it crashes down on his baby’s squirming backside. “You know he’s sensitive about his masculinity.”“Hey-!” Dean begins heatedly, turning from the corner.“You want another spanking, Dean-o?”The kid deflates, mumbles a quick “no sir” and returns his nose to the corner.Sam is spent over John’s lap and the hunter lets up after one last circuit of the boy’s reddened behind. Sam heaves himself up, propels himself back into John’s lap, sobs out his discomfort in his father’s arms. John feels the tears, slick and salty, against his neck, and he rubs the boy’s back, rumbles some soothing words into the kid’s ear.Eventually, the boxers come back up and so do the jeans.“Go to the bathroom. Wash your face.” The order is both gentle and firm, and the last pat Sam receives to the bottom is more encouraging than punishing. John watches the boy go, waits until the door clicks shut behind him before he calls Dean back over.  
“Tell me what earned you that spanking.” John settles his hand on the curve of one of the boy’s warmed cheeks, eyes steady as he waits for a response. Roughhousing, he thinks. Say roughhousing.“Sammy knocked over the TV.”The boy cries out at the heaviness of his father’s swat, hands immediately flashing back to defend himself from further assault.“You know that’s not the reason, young man.”Dean mumbles something in response, and irritation floods through John before he can dam it the hell up.“Excuse me?”“Roughhousing.” Dean spits the word out like venom. “In close quarters.”John hauls the boy over his lap for a second round, lectures about attitude and manners and respect and keeping your mind on punishment and not porn. This time John makes sure the boy’s dancing and crying just as much, if not more, than his little brother was. The last smack is tremendous, and John bodily lifts Dean to his feet, watches the kid wobble, takes in the hooded, red-rimmed eyes that are trying far too hard to remain defiant when the hurt in them is overwhelming.“What’s up, kiddo?” Dean tenses, shifts. John reaches down, gently replaces the raggedy undergarments. “Dean. Tell me what’s wrong.” The kid went three days with a knife wound without saying a word, but John hadn’t asked then. And he definitely hadn’t demanded to know. “Dean...tell me. That’s an order.”Hell may have come and gone for John Winchester, but he’s still damn good at giving orders. And his boy is still damn good at taking them.“You hugged Sam afterwards.”John blinks slowly, realizing his error. Horror sets in. He pulls his adult son into his lap, desperate to make amends. His arms curl snugly around the boy’s torso.He’s sure it’s happened before. There were many times in the past, when Dean was just a kid, just a little kid, that John didn’t give comfort after punishment. Sam always got comfort, but Dean...and Dean never asked for it, either, just took what he got and tried his best not to repeat the mistake.But things are different now.  
Now Dean expects sympathy for paper cuts.Sam walks out of the bathroom, eyes them, sits on the edge of the other bed. He is flossing his teeth and Dean doesn’t seem to care that his brother is seeing him in this vulnerable state, so John takes his lead, keeps his arms light around the kid as Dean slumps back into him as if he’s nothing more than an armchair.The small family is quiet for several minutes. The TV is silent and broken on the floor.John speaks first. “You both need new underwear.”“Dad!” Twin protests.“You do.”It doesn’t take long for both of them to shrug. It’s true. They both need new underwear.

Dean’s head is heavy and so are his eyes. He tries to lift an arm, but that’s heavy too and Sam is driving too slow and Dad isn’t paying attention to the fact that Sam is driving too slow.“Dude, you’re driving too slow,” Dean groans, still trying sit up, and Dad looks back at him with keen eyes while Sam shifts irritably in his seat.“Are you feeling sick?” Dad asks.“I’m fine.”“Do you need to pee?”“Dad,” Dean protests, even as the sensation makes itself known. He fidgets. Dad cocks an eyebrow, tells Sam to pull over a little farther up the road. Dean grunts. He’s getting more than a little tired of being treated like an invalid. He’s concussed, not paralyzed.Sam pulls over. Dad opens Dean’s door before Dean even has the chance to move.“Sammy, if you have to go, too, you should,” Dad says, his hands gripping Dean under the armpits.“I can do it,” Dean snaps without thinking. Dad lets the show of attitude go, but not Dean, and soon Dean is stumbling out of the back of the car and into his father’s arms. It’s really fucking cold outside of the car and Dean shivers as he pulls away from Dad, trying to hide his subsequent moment of vertigo.But he falls back and Dad catches him with firm hands, reels him back in.“Work with me, Dean.”It’s not a request. Sam follows them into the thicket of trees about hundred yards from the road, tries to edge off behind a few for privacy’s sake.“Stay in sight,” Dad warns.“But you know where I am.” It’s a whine and Dad growls as he steers Dean up to a tree. Sam’s stay-in-sight punishment has been pretty easy to contend with up until this moment.“I wanna pee by myself,” Dean tells Dad, and he feels like he is four and claiming that he is a big boy now.  
“So do I,” Sam interjects sullenly, and Dean practically feels it when his father’s head whips around, eyes full of fire on the youngest Winchester.“Dean, you tell me if you start to black out.”“Fine.”“I mean it.”“I will, Dad.”“You better.”Dad’s in one of those moods where he has to have the last word. He lets go of Dean, though, and Dean manages to stay straight and not sway on his feet.“Samuel Winchester.” The reprimand is even-toned, but deafening.Dean snorts as he unzips and he doesn’t have to look in the direction he last heard his brother’s voice to know that the kid just disappeared behind a few trees. He listens as his father rants, “What did I tell you? What were my exact words? I believe I said, ‘If you so much as go behind a tree without permission...’”Listening to this makes it hard to take a piss. Dean tries to concentrate on the patterns in the bark in front of him, but his eyes start to get heavy again and when his eyes start to get heavy, his head starts to get light and then he can’t see light so well anymore.Sam is bare. Dean can tell by the sound of the smacks. The kid is also yelping but each cry is more distant than the last to Dean’s ears.The kid deserves it - Dad warned him multiple times - but Dean saves him anyway, more for Dean’s own sake than for Sam’s.“Dad! I’m blacking out!” It feels like less than a second before Dad is behind him, before the entirety of Dean’s weight is slumped against the man.“I haven’t peed yet,” Dean mutters.“It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you. I’m not lookin’.”It’s unusual for Dad to be so reassuring and Dean’s stream is thick and steady   
as it splashes and cascades down the trunk of this poor, unsuspecting tree. He turns his head lazily to the left to see his little brother facing another tree. Sam’s pants are at his ankles, and his shirt is halfway-covering his bare bottom, two pink hand prints evident on the pale cheeks.“Sammy, if you need to take care of business, you best be doing it now.”Sam grumbles something. Dean finishes pissing, zips up, feeling enormously relieved and pleasantly lighter. Dad eases him down on the ground beside a different, relatively cleaner tree, strokes his hair and mumbles something about Dean being a good boy. Dean watches with tired, half-cognizant eyes as Dad returns to Sam’s side, finishes up the spanking in a flurry of swats and threats that have the 23-year-old in tears.When they get back to the car, Dad makes it clear who’s in good standing and whose name is shit. Dean gets to sit up front as long as he rests his head against his father and not the window and Sam is thrown into the back seat of the Impala, still crying and sniffling and promising Dad that he’ll be good from here on out.Dad steers the car back onto the road, presses his foot down. The Winchesters are going fifteen over the speed limit and Dean is almost glad to be suffering an injury. He wonders if this is what it felt like for Sam all these years, being the baby of the family, having that certain kind of manipulative power that only babies of the family have.“Can we find a place to eat that has pie tonight?” he asks Dad.“Sure, buddy.”“Warm pie?”“Warm pie.”“Awesome.”Dean has changed his mind. It’s not so bad, really, being treated like an invalid.  
Sharing, a lesson he thought they’d finished roughly eighteen years ago.“Ha!” Sam exclaims. He points a mocking finger at Dean. The older boy quickly grabs the finger in retaliation.“You twist that finger and I’m taking you to the restroom for a spanking, Dean,” John warns, and only notices her standing there when her well-groomed hand reaches out for his coffee mug. He looks up, and The Waitress smiles pleasantly (the first time she has done so since the Winchesters entered the restaurant) as she refills the mug. The boys’ faces are blazing red, both of their eyes set on the wall.The Waitress leans down to an unnecessary degree to return John’s mug to the table. She turns into him as she starts her ascent back to standing, puts her lips almost on his ear.“The pantry in the back is soundproof. You’re welcome to it.” She slowly slips something into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Just return it when you pay.”What a backwards little town this is, John thinks as he meets her steady gaze. He gives her a quick nod. She turns to the boys, adds, “Perhaps you should be good for your papa while you’re here” and smiles when they squirm.John listens as she walks off, the boys’ faces finally settle.“Dude...what the hell?” Dean buries his face in his hands in mortification. John fishes in his pocket, pulls out a key. “I wonder if this is a trap...” he muses.Sam whimpers. “What’s that for? Her torture chamber?”“She said it was for the pantry in the back...the soundproof pantry in the back.”Dean pushes away his fries, stares at his father with a pale face. “The soylent green is people, Dad.”“Yeah, I bet there’s half-eaten corpses back there,” Sam agrees. A look of mutual understanding passes quickly between the boys.“Can we go?” they chorus, scooting in near synchrony out of the seat.“I’ll drive, Dad. You’re tired,” Dean offers, holding his hand out for the key to the Impala. John hands them over. “You’re taking care of the check, right? Sammy and I will just go wait in the car and-” But they’re both out of the diner before   
Dean can finish the sentence.John smirks.“Works every time.” And there she is again. The Waitress picks the key out of his two-fingered grasp. “They are usually younger than yours.”“I imagine they are,”John replies. He won’t apologize for it. Dean and Sam might be oversized children at times, but they’re his oversized children, and he’ll do with them what he will and love them all the same. He hands her cash for bill and tip. Normally, he would opt for one of his fraudulent credit cards at this point, but he feels a certain fondness for this woman’s demented, but admittedly brilliant form of parental aid. “Clever idea.”“Thank you,” she replies. “If you ever come back make sure they behave.”He assures her that he will, though he has no plans on ever returning. The boys are still looking stricken in the car. Dean’s hands grip the wheel tightly as he drives. He and Sam discuss their recent trauma in quiet tones as John rests his head against the back window and closes his eyes. It starts to rain and the gentle coast of the car mixed with the splashes and splatters of the rain against the roof and windshield send John into slumber almost immediately.He wakes when the wheels hit a pothole.“Dude, that chick just wanted to see us get spanked,” Dean is still saying three hours later. “ By our Dad. How creepy is that?” Sam responds by tapping him on the back of the head. “Don’t touch me, Sam.”“Don’t touch me, Sam.”“Oh my freakin’ God. You are not seriously doing that.”“Oh my freakin’ God . You are not seriously doing that.”“You’re twenty-three!”“You’re twenty-three!”“That’s very kind of you, but I’m actually twenty-seven.”“That’s very kind of you, but I’m actually twenty-seven.”John sighs. It’s been three hours in the car. After three hours in the car, his boys  
have forgotten their respective ages and the fact that they’re on their way to do a job. They have forgotten virtually everything that will keep their bottoms clothed and unscathed - and this time they won’t have a severe Russian waitress to scare them straight just in the nick of time.  
John throws the cloth down onto the dresser. “You have a sore throat? You didn’t tell me you have a sore throat.”“I have a sore throat,” Sam says. “There. You’ve been told.”“Sammy has a sore throat, Dad.” Dean nods sagely. He dives onto the bed next to Sam, one of the medicinal lollipops already stuck in his mouth.“Dean...what did I tell-”“If I was gonna get it, I already would’ve. I dug up the grave in the rain, too, remember?”Sam sticks a hand into the package of purple bears.“Advil first,” John says. Sam merely glares at him before snapping the plastic wrap from his sucker and defiantly shoving it into his mouth.John’s pretty sure he’s going to kill the kid. Fortunately Dean notices the ominous look on his father’s face and eases the pop from Sam’s lips. His hand comes down on his brother’s arm in a lofty pat.“If you take your Advil first, I’ll tell you all about the quickie I had with the store clerk.”Sam takes his Advil. He sucks on his bear and listens to about three minutes of Dean’s story before declaring, “Okay...that’s way too much information. I’m going to sleep.”John slips a thermometer into his baby’s mouth one last time, runs a gruff hand through the long hair. Sam glowers up at him. Dean leans over, whispers something secretive into his brother’s ear and Sam’s face smoothes over. Blue-green eyes blink softly up at John as the thermometer beeps.101.4. “You get me up if you need to,” he tells Sam. The boy nods sleepily, tucks his head into his pillow.Dean’s starting to look like a ‘coon, his eyes dark and his skin pale and drawn as he curls next to his little brother.“Bedtime, kiddo.”  
Dean doesn’t argue, just gets up and shuffles off to the bathroom. He returns bare-chested in a pair of plaid boxers, throws his jeans and shirt onto his bag. John is starting to feel like a nagging mother. “Put your pajamas on Dean.”“M’27, dude. Don’t have pajamas.”“You have pajama pants.”Dean shrugs, bends over, fishes through his bag for the blue-striped pajama pants he rarely wears.“You’re freaking out without reason, Dad,” the boy says as he tugs the soft garments up his long legs.“Put on a T-shirt, too.”“I don’t want to. I’m hot.”“Dean.”Dean pulls a white t-shirt over his head. “S’not your fault.” John ignores the boy,pulls down the covers next to Sam. “Thought you didn’t want-”“You’re already sick. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Dean shrugs, gets in next to his brother.“I thought we’d already established that I wasn’t sick.”John places a hand on the kid’s forehead. The skin is hot to the touch and Dean leans into his father’s palm.“Yeah, okay. You just have really cold hands or somethin’. Still. Not your fault.”“Go to sleep, Dean.”“You don’t control the weather.”“I was the one who ordered you to dig.”“You don’t control us, either. We just let you think that, sometimes. ‘Sides, you told us to dig. You didn’t tell us to dig in the rain.”“I didn’t tell you not to.”“You weren’t there. You didn’t know. Now gimme a freakin’ break and stop   
overcompensating.”“Go to sleep, Dean.” John’s not willing to give the boy any kind of admission. He’s found over the years that orders are the best evasion to awkward questions and observations. But Dean doesn’t go to sleep -- his green eyes are earnest as he looks up at John. “What is it, sweetheart?”“You think I got the hot lady clerk sick?”“Maybe. You’re old enough to know that sex can have unforeseen consequences.Hopefully she was, too...”“She was,” Dean promises. “I wouldn’t do that...”“I know you wouldn’t. Stop worrying. Go to sleep.”Dean shuts his eyes. “Dad?”“Dean.”“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ Calling your 27-year-old son ‘sweetheart’ is pretty gay.”“Yeah, okay.”“Promise me.”“I promise you.”John watches his sons fall asleep, ears tuning into Dean’s soft snores and Sam’s faint wheezes. He breaks out a bottle and drinks himself to sleep, well aware that he is a bad father who does not intend to keep all of his promises.  
John’s boys are cranky little fucks when they’re sick. Sam’s the first to complain when his face is struck by a wayward arm.“Stop writhing, Dean.”“Sheets are stickin’ t’me,” Dean moans, and John sees the outline of the leg under the comforter as it lunges in Sam’s direction.“Dad-”John helps his eldest into the other bed, where the sheets are cool and untouched. Dean’s lips lift in a serene smile as he nestles into the pillow closest to the nightstand, a searching hand reaching out for the remote control.“TV...”John obliges, picking up the remote control and turning the TV on.Dean’s smile is delirious and grateful as he reaches out and knocks his father’s hand with his fingers.“You’re a real sweetheart, Dad.”John smirks, places a cool palm on his eldest’s warm head. “I know, Dean-o. So are you.” He leans down and plants a noisy kiss on the young man’s cheek. Dean groans and swipes at the damp spot like a disgruntled 7-year-old who’s just been attacked by an overzealous little girl.“Don’t do that,” the kid grunts as he turns onto his side, peers with bleary eyes up at John.“Get some sleep,” John replies. He pats Dean on the hip.The boy groans, mumbles something about television, and John leaves him to his viewing pleasure, fully expecting the kid to pass out in the next five minutes.“Sammy?”But Sam’s already sleeping, turned towards the wall. John settles into a chair with a book and beer, leans back and waits for his other son to do the same._____________________________An hour later, Dean is sleeping like the dead. Sam is not.  
John’s little one is squirming around in violent effort, sweating profusely, mumbling painful words in his feverish stupor. Kid’s dreaming something awful.“Sam? Sammy?Brown eyes flutter open and so does the soft mouth and goddamnit, Sam looks just like he did when he was five and had the measles. He reaches out a big hand to touch John’s face, bleary eyes blinking.John intercepts the hand, squeezes it. “I’m here, Sammy.”“Dad?”“Yeah, kiddo. S’me.”John feels slightly uplifted when the kid smiles, but then Sam starts patting around on the bed, searching frantically in the empty space.“Sammy?”“Dean...where-?”“The other bed.” John moves to the side so his son can see the slumbering lump that is Dean. “Remember? He was thrashing around like a lunatic, so I moved him for you?”Relief licks Sam’s face like a refreshing breeze and the smile comes back. John puts a hand on his baby’s head, runs it back over the sweaty, dark tresses.“What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it, then shakes his head too quickly with a jaw that is clamped too tight. John moves his hand down, runs a gentle thumb over that jaw.“You’re real hot, Sammy.”Sam blinks at him, grins. “If I were Dean, I would make a very inappropriate joke right now.”“I’m glad you’re you.”“Mmm...M’I your favorite?”John rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a favorite.”  
“But if you did-?”“I wouldn’t.”Sam pouts. John ignores it.It’s a bitch getting the boy’s temperature, but after two minutes of orders and threats and coercion, John finally gets the thermometer into Sam’s mouth. There’s a glare, a furrowed brow, and a protruding lip staring him down until the goddamn thing beeps, but John feels it’s worth it in the end - kid’s practically on fire, apparently.“C’mon, Sam.”“I don’t wanna...”John lugs his youngest out of bed and into the bathroom. He stoppers the tub, checks the water temperature with his hand. Today, John Winchester is a good father.“Aw, c’mon-” Sam stamps his foot - actually stamps his goddamn foot - while John undresses him.“You’re not six, Sam.”“Try telling you that.”John’s gonna let that go. The boy’s real sick and he’s looking pale. John wonders if the ghost white face is completely from the illness. Maybe it’s a remnant from that nightmare he just woke his son up from.“I don’t want to-”“Your fever’s too high, Sam.”“I don’t want to.”“It’s either the bath or a warm bottom and the bath. Which would you rather, kid?”Sam’s hands fly back to protect his naked backside. He shakes his head, sweat-soaked hair flying every which way.  
“Don’t.”Tears. Out of nowhere. Cascading down two flushed cheeks.“I’ll be good, Dad. M’sorry! M’trying so hard.”John feels like he’s swallowing a planet. He mumbles some soothing words before lowering his son into the cool bathwater, stays with him through the initial shock, running coarse hands down the kid’s arms.He soaks a washcloth in the tub, soothes it over Sam’s shaking back.“I was evil,” Sam tells him, voice wavering.John freezes, but only for a second. He takes the cloth to the back of Sam’s neck, massages the nape. Sam’s still shivering, but he leans back into the touch.“I was evil in my dream,” Sam continues. “I did really bad...I did h-horrible things, Dad.”“Sammy...”“I...don’t. I just...”“Go on, baby.”“It wasn’t the worst part. Doing bad things wasn’t the worst part.”Sam turns, looks longingly at his father through wet lashes. John knows this look. This is the little boy who greets him after a hunt, climbs into his lap, and doesn’t let go for an hour. This is the little boy who says things like I missed you, Daddy. Don’t leave me again.I need you.John leans in as far as he can and Sam leans out as far as comfort will let him. The boy buries his face into his father’s neck, takes in a shuddering breath. John lets the washcloth fall with a splash into the water, coaxes coarse fingertips along his son’s spine.“What was the worst part, Sammy?”Sam sucks in some air, lets it out. The sound is ragged and heartbreaking.  
“I...while I was doing the bad things, I didn’t think they were bad.”“No?”John feels the boy’s head shake.“I thought...thought I was right. I thought I was being good. I did really bad things and I...I didn’t understand...I-”John shushes his son then, pulls him into an awkward and uncomfortable embrace, but Sam melts into him as much as he possibly can, sobs like he used to when he was five and confused and knew nothing other than his dislike of that confusion.“It was just a dream, Sammy. Just a dream,” John murmurs, knowing full well that with this one, they’re never just dreams.He helps Sam out of the tub, runs a towel over the boy’s skin, through the damp hair. Sam doesn’t complain when John redresses him in fresh clothes, follows his father out of the bathroom with eyes still damp and red-rimmed.John starts remaking the rumpled motel bed, stops when he hears Sam call him.“Sammy?”“I wanna sleep with Dean.” The vulnerable honesty makes John’s heart ache. Sam doesn’t wait for him to reply, just crawls in with his brother, edges back into Dean’s body.Dean opens an eye, croaks out his little brother’s name.“Bad dream.”Two words, the only explanation Dean will ever need. John watches his eldest throw an arm over Sam’s side, watches the green eyes flutter back shut. Sam shuts his eyes, too, and John takes a seat on the opposite bed, puts his elbow on his knee and his chin on the heel of his hand. He watches his sons breathe, notices how the rhythms unify with time. He watches them sleep. They sleep for hours.  
“Two little boys cruisin’ for a spanking.”They turn over with groans that sound like a dying horse. John’s quick about it, pulling down the covers and landing a couple of half-hearted swats to each behind.“You stay quiet for five minutes and I’ll give you the television back.”They stay quiet for five minutes.Dean reaches out a complacent hand for the remote, but John’s smarter now. He’s learned his lesson. Two sick Winchesters and one television do not a calm atmosphere make. John’s hand is all gruff affection as it comes down to ruffle his eldest’s hair, and he smirks slightly as he says, “How about I choose the channel?” The green eyes are somewhere between trusting and not as they peer back up at him before turning to the quickly flickering television.John stops on a show composed of bright colors and blonde hair and a laugh track. Sam’s looking weary, Dean’s looking scandalized.“Dad, I don’t want to watch The Suite Life of Zack and Cody.”John snorts, because if Dean’s seen this before, then he can certainly stand watching it again, or at least listening to it as he falls asleep. Sam, however, has his head turned on his pillow, pink mouth gaping at his brother.“The what, Dean?”“The Suite Life of-”“No...no, I heard you. Dean...” and Sam’s eyes flash quickly to John, searching for disapproval. John doesn’t give him any. He’s not going to cause waves over a little brotherly ribbing. “Dean, this is the Disney Channel. You watch the Disney Channel?”Dean’s face burns. John leans down and pecks the kid’s forehead, stretches over the boy’s still form to do the same to Sam. He’s not going to mediate this one. This one’s funny.“No. No I-”“You do.” Sam’s eyes are bright and his mouth is wide and just a bit wicked. John makes his way back to the table, sets himself in a chair, sets his eyes back   
on the book. Sam continues, “You do watch the Disney Channel. You really do! What’s this called again?”“The Suite Life of Shut the Fuck Up, Sammy.”“No, no...Zack and Cody. That’s what you said before. Are those the names of those little boys?”John glances up at the television screen, hides a smile behind a weathered hand.The scene is childish and high-pitched and meant for an audience no older than twelve.“The Suite Life of My Fist in Your Face.”“Dad, Dean’s threatening me with bodily harm.”“Dad, Sam’s provoking me into threatening him with bodily harm.”The laugh track sounds from the television. Sam says, “Dean, you made me miss it! Something funny just happened. How come you didn’t laugh?” John hears his oldest boy grumble, hears the sound of a fist lightly hitting a bare arm. He calls out a warning, makes sure there’s no remaining laughter in his voice and Dean grunts and shifts and watches the television with arms crossed over his T-shirted chest. Sam watches with the smile of a smart aleck, eyes traveling from the screen to his big brother, elbow clearly moving under the covers and into his sibling’s ribs every time something apparently comedic happens. This goes on for about fifteen minutes until Dean speaks again.“It’s funny because there’s a fat twin and a thin twin.”“That’s not the reason you find it funny.”“Yes it is, Sam. One of them’s fat and one of them’s thin. And the thin one can’t act. That’s what makes this show entertaining. If you watch it, you’ll understand.”Sam’s laugh tinkles through the air. Dean shoves him. John tells them both to settle the fuck down and they fall quiet once again.It’s a marathon, apparently. It doesn’t take long before the boys find a mutual ground of mockery on which to stand and about three episodes later, John’s kids are asleep. Sam’s face is tucked into Dean’s shoulder, big foot lolling off the edge of the too-small bed.  
John turns off the television, because there’s no way in hell he can stand that shit anymore. It’s nice, though, to know that Dean would voluntarily enjoy something so innocent. Their faces are soft and sweet in slumber and John tucks the rumpled covers up to their shoulders, hefts Sam’s foot back onto the bed. Sam shifts and throws an unconscious arm over his brother’s belly and Dean chuckles in his sleep. John smiles momentarily, prays for all the unlucky unicorns in his boy’s head.


End file.
